The Artisan
by windscryer
Summary: Of all the things he imagined about Hell, he never imagined this. Spoilers possible for all episodes currently aired in the US. AU.
1. Graduation With Honors

Okay so I was mad today. Very, very mad. Think the force of the Hulk and the cold precision of . . . Actually, I can't think of an appropriate character for that last part.

Let's just say I was royally _pissed_.

And I couldn't write anything else so I wrote this.

I'm warning you now it is _**dark**_. You know how Sam said that Winchester dark was pretty dark?

This makes normal Winchester dark look like a freaking sun gone supernova.

If that's not your cup of tuna then you might want to back out now and go find another fic. I won't be hurt.

Otherwise . . . you've been warned.

Also, **potential spoilerishness** up to 4x11 Family Remains. Nothing major, but it is in there.

And considering the end of the fic, I'd also say it's safely AU.

Don't expect any more of this. It is intriguing, I'll admit, but not my normal sandbox.

If I get this mad again you'll be seeing me on the nightly news, not writing fanfic.

* * *

He thought many times of what hell would be like.

In his nightmares. In those brief times between almost dying and realizing he'd survived, when time stretched and reality became hazy. In his moments of despair when he was brutally honest with himself and he admitted that he didn't trust his brother enough to get him out of the deal.

But never—_never_—in all the times he imagined it, tried to fathom what is would be like, tried to prepare himself for the torture that would be inflicted on him, did he imagine this.

He paints.

He was never the artistic kind in life.

The closest he came to painting then was the judicious use of chocolate on a woman's skin. He smiles and thinks fondly of those times. They were delicious memories.

Much like these will be.

The chocolate, warm and smooth and dripping slightly as he drew abstract designs over soft skin, sometimes golden with sunlight or genetics, sometimes pale as moonlight on white rose petals. It was sweet and thick and tasted so fucking good when he licked it off, mingled with the soft sighs of his canvas.

His paint now is warm and smooth and dripping slightly. The skin comes in as many shades as it did then. And it is still sweet and thick and he always licks his fingers when he's done.

Licks up every . . .

last . . .

drop.

But there are no sighs from his canvas now.

Fearful whimpers.

Painful moans.

Pleas for mercy.

But no sighs.

He dips his fingers in the thick pool, making sure the coating is even, and then hooks them slightly, to scoop up that extra little bit.

He has a design in mind and he'll need to work quickly before it dries.

A soft mewling sound escapes as he brushes broad fingertips over a pale forehead.

"Please . . . stop . . ."

He ignores the whispered words and continues his work.

He has found a soothing sort of comfort in his art.

That is the most unexpected part, he thinks.

How much he enjoys painting in blood.

o.o

He's being moved today. To a new section. They say he's learned all he can here, has perfected his art. Time to learn something new.

A stir of excitement twirls through his belly.

He's come to know that learning new things is the best part of being here.

He never imagined there was so much to learn.

He is led to a new room, sad because he will miss the old one. He had so much fun there.

But he's also sure he will have fun here.

He is shown his workstation, a neat and tidy tray next to a rolling stool and a generous table. The tray is covered with a sheet and he wonders what treasures lay beneath it.

There is no instruction beyond, "Have fun."

That's all he's ever told.

He didn't know what to make of it at first, but now he does. That's his invitation to play. To explore. To try new things.

There is no wrong path, though some are more satisfying than others.

He lifts the cloth and smiles, the expression childlike in its pure joy.

He is a painter no more. Brushes and fingers are tools of the past.

His tools now are shiny and sharp. So very, very sharp, he learns, as he presses a thumb to one edge and nearly slices it off.

He laughs at the sight and sticks the bleeding digit into his mouth, eyes closing as he tastes the sweetness there.

And then his new medium arrives.

He no longer paints on canvases.

Now he is a master carver.

The block of unblemished skin before him makes a sound, tears leak down the face.

He ignores them and goes to work. Before he is done tears will not be the only thing sliding down skin to drip onto the table and flow to the floor.

o.o

They move him more often now.

He used to stay in a place for weeks or even months.

Now he's lucky if he gets days before they give him something new. He was in his last station longer than most of the other recent ones, but he suspects that's because he took so long to finish his project.

He enjoyed it quite a bit.

It was a kind of painting, though much more satisfying than the blood.

The pungent smell of the gasoline tingled his nostrils and made him giggle, like the bubbles in champagne he tried once.

He took far more time then anyone else in his area. They had no respect for their arts though. Sure, they got louder screams and they got them more often, but none were as sweet as his.

He'd paint first, drawing out paths on the skin. He'd taken to talking as he did so, explaining what he was doing and why.

He found it made the cries to stop more poignant, the screams more satisfyingly shrill.

And then he'd use a piece of straw. The flame so small on the end it was almost smoke.

And he'd touch it off, watching with glee as it raced over the skin, spreading outward in a rush of heat, like dominoes falling one by one.

And then, when the whole skin was in flames and the screams were drawing attention, he'd put it out.

With acid.

A few seconds to savor the new pitch of the cries and he'd douse the whole mess with water. First ice cold, then a second fall of boiling hot.

Then he'd start all over again.

He'd gotten the timing down to such precision that he could keep going for almost a month on that one medium alone.

Layer . . .

by . . .

layer . . .

He'd strip them down until they were nothing but bones.

And then he'd wave his hand and fix it all . . .

And start over.

o.o

He used to have an audience.

They were distracting at one time.

And then, when they caused him to twitch and mess up the perfect line he was drawing, he sprayed them with the vat of boiling oil he'd been working with in a fit of rage.

And set them on fire.

No one came to watch him for a time after that, but eventually they came back.

They learned to be quiet.

And he learned to ignore them.

He wonders if there is someone else now, someone more interesting than him.

They've stopped coming to watch.

He's intrigued by the fact that it seems to bother him.

One day he asks why.

There is something in Alistair's eyes when he considers his answer.

Something he's only used to seeing in the eyes of his mediums.

He realizes it's fear and amusement curves his generous lips.

"Alistair," he asks, voice deliberately kept low and smooth. He's discovered this tone and pitch and volume is the one that heightens the fear response more than any other. "You're not afraid of me are you?"

Alistair sneers, words cold and sharp as he is put back in his place.

Or at least, he assumes that was Alistair's objective.

He's surprised to find it doesn't work.

Once upon a time the very thought of hearing that voice say anything at all would have made him shudder and cringe and beg for mercy.

Now it amuses him.

As does the blood that runs down to the floor when he slides his largest carving knife between Alistair's third and fourth ribs on the left side.

A twist and a gentle push and Alistair is gasping, eyes wide with panic and pain and—oh yes, the fear.

He drinks it in, inhaling deeply as if it were a scent he could breathe.

And maybe it is.

"It's been fun," he says, the charming smile he used when bidding farewell to the ladies in his last life making a reappearance. "But I have places to go and people to see. Later, dude."

He gives the blade one more sharp push and then releases it and Alistair's body, turning and walking away without a backward glance.

o.o

He pauses at the Gates, considers the wide world that lays before him . . . and then turns around.

He has a tail.

Or rather, his tail has a tail.

He kneels down, and beckons the creature forward with a wiggle of his fingers.

They met in New Harmony, Indiana, under circumstances that some might think would cause bad blood between them.

He's since learned there is no such thing as bad blood. And he can now appreciate her skills. She is one of the best of her kind.

They used to work together as well. Only a month, but boy did they have fun.

"Hey, girl," he murmurs. "Did you miss me?"

She whines and licks his face, surprising a laugh out of him.

Burying his fingers into her ruff, he presses his forehead to hers.

"You want to go for a walk? See what fun toys we can find to play with out there?"

She wriggles and dances in place, barking once.

He stands and looks back.

He never had the experience in his life so he can't be positive, but . . . he thinks this must be what it's like to graduate from college.

He learned a lot here.

Time to take those skills and put them to use.

With a snap of his fingers, his companion heels to his side and they stride through the Gates.

Just a man and his dog looking for some fun.

* * *

If you're not running for your life by now I'd appreciate a word or two on what you thought of my evil!Dean. Personally, he creeped me the hell out, but maybe someone out there likes him.


	2. Just for Kicks and Giggles

I had another bad day. Thus you guys get more Damned!Dean. And if you thought the last one was bad, you will definitely want to turn around now.

It's most certainly earned the rating this time. Major squick factor lies ahead. You are warned.

As this is AU no **spoilers** beyond the same as last time.

Disclaimer: Even Eric hasn't gone this dark on the show. That ought to be a clue.

* * *

She was young.

Barely in the blush of womanhood.

Blonde.

Strawberry lips and bright blue eyes.

She had a sweet voice—even sweeter, in his opinion, when it was shrilly screaming for mercy that would never come.

It made him smile.

Her delicate, bird-boned wrists were bruised and chafed and bleeding from the wide leather straps that encircled them, her ankles in a similar state.

When he'd first found her, she'd smelled of some fruity perfume, apples and vanilla or something. It made him hungry.

So after knocking her out and tying her up and throwing her in the trunk of the sweet ride he'd boosted, he stopped for apple pie with vanilla ice cream. His companion settled for a raw steak.

And then they left the diner in flames, the occupants splattered across the interior.

He hadn't taken the time he normally would have, but he was eager to get to the prize stuffed in the back of his car. Besides, there was something very Jackson Pollock about causing a human being to explode all over the canvas of a room.

Damn, he thought with a chuckle. Looks like all those museums Sammy had dragged him to as a child had actually gotten him some culture.

Who knew?

He'd found a nice little house out in the country, a farm house once upon a time though the land had been sold off until it was just the house left, the big oak tree grown tall and wide in the front yard, a tire swing still hanging from one sturdy branch.

And the sweet little old couple who'd been inside had welcomed him warmly. She'd remarked that he reminded her of her oldest grandson with those freckles and that soft smile of his. Her husband had said that was a good firm handshake there and it was no trouble at all to let him rest for the night under their roof.

He really liked them.

Mrs. Parker—Betty Mae, dear, everyone calls me Betty Mae—had even scrounged up a juicy ham bone for his girl. It was a kindness he wouldn't forget.

And then they screamed so nicely for him when he carved the skin from their still living bones, eyes wide with terror as his girl had eaten their internal organs one by one while they watched. He had taken time with them, honored them with some of his best skill and those memories would keep him smiling for some time as well.

And then it was time to open up the trunk.

Hateful eyes glared at him, pale cheeks with rosy spots of fury riding high on their peaches and cream complexion.

She said some very rude things about him. Tried to tell him that he would regret this. That he would _pay_ for what he intended to do.

It had been amusing at first but when she insisted on continuing with that instead of whimpering and crying out like she was supposed to, he resorted to cutting out her tongue.

It dampened the few screams he'd gotten already and he was sad to do it for that reason alone, but, frankly, the whining was getting annoying.

She still _tried_ to cry out when he really got going, but it came out a gurgled sort of sound. The whimpers were unaffected though. There was that at least.

He spent almost two weeks with her.

Etching delicate designs into her skin and filling them with gasoline so the fire was a sort of lacy pattern over her body.

Removing her extremities an inch at a time, then decreasing that until he was shaving her down to her torso a deli-thin slice at a time.

Mr. Parker had a well stocked tool shed and he put it to fantastic use.

He tried out a few new tricks he'd been thinking about, including replacing her blood with cherry glaze from canned pie fillings in Mrs. Parker's full basement pantry to see how long her heart would keep pumping. Not very long unfortunately.

Then he tried strawberry just to see if it would make a difference. Not really. Sad.

He made tiny surgical slits in her side and removed her ribs one by one, sewing the small slices back up when he was done. He had wondered if she would suffocate.

She did—eventually.

And then he healed her and began once more.

She asked after the . . . was it the fifteenth or sixteenth time?

Fifteen, he decided, because that was when he'd cut her pretty blue eyes from her head and fed them back to her.

He'd made her whole once more and, with her tongue back for a short while, she asked why he was doing this.

That made him laugh.

Long and hard until his sides ached and tears dripped down his face, splattering over her smooth stomach. His companion had looked up from where she was gnawing on Mr. Parker's femur, trying to suck the last of the marrow out, and gave him a cocked-head stare asking what was so funny.

He wiped his eyes mostly dry and said, "Oh, Lilith, baby. You know the answer to that. Why the hell _not_?" He grinned and continued to chuckle as he picked up the knife he'd chosen for this round and, in honor of her making him laugh, proceeded to carve every last joke he'd every heard into her skin until no more pale white remained.

o.o

He kept her there until she stopped paying attention. Until her whimpers became mere grunts, sort of distracted, like the body was acting on instinct in protesting the pain, but the mind inside didn't really care. She'd chosen a pretty meat-suit, but a weak one evidently.

After that he got bored.

With a sigh he wiped his hands on the last clean rag and stood.

"It's been fun," he said, bending and pressing a kiss to her forehead, his broad hand sweeping the hair back over her head. "I'm going to miss these little sessions of ours. But, darlin', I'm just not the committing kind. And I feel like we've grown apart. But I do have a parting gift for you. Let me go get it."

He went up to the car and opened the back door, pulling out the faded duffel he'd gotten from a second hand store in Louisiana when he went to see if he'd missed Mardi Gras.

He had, the Big Easy was always a party town if you knew where to look.

He'd known exactly where to look.

And after he'd fed the last piece of voodoo bokor to the gators in the swamp out behind the house he'd taken the liberties of doing a little shopping inside.

Where he'd found a very special knife.

It looked exactly like the knife that Ruby chick had always been carrying around, but he knew that this one wasn't it. This was the mate to that one, a very special set of steak knives forged a long time ago in some very, very dark times.

Shame he hadn't been born yet. He bet he coulda shown them a thing or two, he thought with a grin as he pulled the knife out of the bag.

He hefted it in his hand, eyes skimming the sigils carved into the blade.

Thing of beauty, this was. A real fine piece of craftsmanship.

He headed back down the stairs and was unsurprised to find the table empty.

He was even less surprised to find his companion straddling Lilith's broken and bruised meat-suit.

"See?" he said gesturing with the knife. "This is what I'm talking about. There just isn't any trust in our relationship and I can't be in a relationship without trust."

She glared daggers at him—all she could manage since the very first thing he did after healing her was to remove her tongue again.

"I was telling the truth though," he said as he knelt at her side.

He ruffled the furry ears of his girl and smiled when she swiped her big tongue up the side of his face.

"Thanks, girl," he said and then gave her a gentle push to move her. Lilith gave one last attempt at escaping and tried rolling free.

He easily stopped her and took his girl's place, straddling her slim hips.

"You'll always have a piece of my heart," he said and plunged the knife down.

She gasped, body jerking as if in a full epileptic seizure for a few long moments, body lighting up like he'd shot a flare up her ass.

Damn, he thought, tilting his head to the side. He'd have to try that next time.

And then she gave one last gurgled cry and fell still, limp form splayed over the cold basement floor.

He pulled the knife free, then jammed it down again, slicing cleanly through the skin until there was a gap wide enough to reach in and pull out her heart.

He cut a small chunk off and pulled a Ziplock baggy from his pocket, shaking it out. The chunk of cardiac muscle was sealed in, the air pressed out, and then he folded the bag over and tucked it in his his jacket pocket and patted it.

"And I'll always have a piece of yours too," he said.

He stood and thought about licking the knife clean.

Shame to waste the blood.

But he didn't dare considering the special power it wielded.

So he wiped it off and sheathed it at his side.

He looked around at the right mess he'd made of the place and huffed a laugh.

"Damn, I do good work." A whine and he looked down and ruffled her ears again. "Sorry, girl. You're right. _We_ do good work." A last look and he nodded. "But it's time to move on," he said. "Let's go." He snapped his fingers and she led the way up the stairs and out to the car.

They left quietly, much the way they'd come.

No one knew their names, though it was unlikely they'd be forgotten here any time soon.

* * *

I'm leaving this marked as finished because I just don't know if anything will come after this and, really, both chapters are complete as far as I'm concerned.

If you want to know about possible further updates I'd recommend getting a 'story alert' or keeping an eye on my profile.

And don't hold your breath or you're gonna pass out. :D


	3. The Pokey Little Puppy

Okay, yeah. You'll notice if you look up that I took this off the 'completed' roster. Apparently my Muse feels this story is not yet finished and will no longer work as just a series of one-shots. I dunno. It might still feel like that in the reading. We'll see.

Unfortunately, she's being rather close-lipped about what exactly IS going on in this story so I can't tell you when she'll update or even where this might end. I will happily welcome along anyone who wishes to ride with me, but I will also understand if you walk away at any point and don't come back.

Once more (with a foreboding feeling):

_**WARNING****S:**_

There are no unicorns or daisies or sunshine or rainbows ahead. This is strictly a candy cane- and lollipop-free zone.

Here there be hellhounds and demons and, possibly, dragons. Definitely blood and guts and gore and seriously twisted cookies.

Also, from this point forward ANYTHING in the current season is fair game as of the airing of the episode in the US. I don't do spoilers for unaired episodes and I'd appreciate you guys respecting that in your reviews.

That said, enjoy. You know, if you can.

Oh and here. *hands over flashlight*

You're gonna need that in the chapters ahead. It's gonna get mighty dark I'm thinking, and if there is a light at the end of this tunnel it's probably just the train speeding towards us all.

WHEE!

* * *

Sam sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, scrunching up his face as he exhaled deeply.

He let go and opened his eyes as wide as they could go and gave himself a little shake.

Just a little bit longer and he could stop for the night and rest.

Well, he'd _have_ to stop for the night, whether he wanted to or not. His vision was starting to blur and even if his mind was able to keep going, research was very hard when you couldn't see a damn thing. A few hours of resting them in the dark—if not actually sleeping—and he'd be able to start another long day of staring at computer screens and printed papers.

There were footsteps behind him and then a presence draped itself over his back, arms coming around his neck to give him something approximating a hug. Except snakes didn't really hug so much as strangle and they were always in search of a good meal. Cold-blooded bastards.

"You need to take a break?" There was a smile in the female voice that murmured in his ear. "I can think of something much more fun to do," she added and nibbled at his jawline.

Sam wiggled and shoved her off, scowling.

"I'm working here, Ruby," he said and refocused on the screen. He wanted to press his lips together and breathe through his nose, but that was dangerous. It had been a while since he'd allowed himself a break and she smelled . . . _fantastic_.

It was a smell that made his stomach simultaneously roll sickeningly and rumble with hungry desire, and eventually he knew he'd cave and give into the need to stop the desire if not the nausea.

But not right now. Right now he was working on finding their next demonic target for him to hone his psychic skills on.

Recently, reports had started popping up about a seriously bad demon—one who left behind a staggering body count and who didn't seem to give a whit for any kind of PR control.

Not that most demons cared all _that_ much about hiding their work, but this one was almost _asking_ for Hunters to come find him and stop him. It was almost a challenge.

Maybe it was.

The kills were messy and gruesome and Sam was pretty sure that the media was actually _toning down_ the details to keep from causing a public panic. As if the sheer frequency and body count wasn't cooking one of those up anyway.

Especially since the law enforcement agencies—from the FBI on down—had no clues. There were never any witnesses left alive. Camera footage was uselessly snowed out. No DNA, no fibers, no fingerprints or shoe prints or _any _kind of prints to put into databases and try to come up with a match.

They had exactly shit. It was like the guy didn't exist.

They were blindly groping in the dark for something—_anything—_that they could use to, if not stop this guy, at least figure out where he was going to strike next. The country was on the verge of panic because the best FBI profilers didn't even have an MO or a pattern or any kind of mental read on this mass murdering psycho.

He attacked every age, every race, every social and wealth class. He'd just pick a place and start killing and kill everything there was and then he'd vanish again into thin air.

He never even used the same method. A sabotaged gas line leading to an explosion one day, slashing throats with a butter knife that came from the scene the next.

Some days he'd kill a hundred, or two hundred, an entire town just wiped from the map. The next he'd leave a single drunk wandering along the road dead.

They knew it was him, even if they couldn't quite say why. Something about the killings—sadly, not something quantifiable they could use to pin him down—just marked the kills as his.

Well, actually, there was one clue, present at every damn killing, though it hadn't been recognized at first and therefore some backtracking was required to connect it.

Not to mention that hell if any of them knew what it meant: Sulfur at the scene. Liberally dusted over things like powdered sugar on waffles.

But they couldn't even trace that because it was pure as pure could be and there was no _reason_ for it. Not to mention there didn't seem to be any source. No one was ever missing any sulfur, no labs or schools or even local rock formations close by—or far away—from the scene.

It was not so much a clue as an even more frustrating mystery.

They thought he might have a partner at times, possibly a canine companion, possibly more than one, but there wasn't enough consistency—and certainly no physical evidence—to be sure of that either.

The best—the _only—_thing they could come up with was that he would kill again and again until he made a mistake and got caught. _If_ he made a mistake and got caught.

But that hope was dying a little more each day too, along with the numerous victims.

Even the Hunting community was scrambling because, like all demons, signs and portents showed up, but this demon wasn't playing around or taking his sweet time. He'd stuck in one place for nigh on two weeks after his first known massacre, but since then it was all hit and run activity.

There would be electrical storms that would flare up out of nowhere and by the time the weather service was reporting them and the nearest hunter was racing to the scene, the news was already giving the death toll and wondering who this madman was and where he'd strike next.

They were talking, on the news, about forming a joint federal task force incorporating agencies that didn't usually get involved in this kind of thing because they honestly had no idea what else to do. The FBI and Homeland security, of course, but all the branches of the military would be invited as well as the CDC—an entire town had died of unexplained aneurysms all at the _exact_ same time, every living thing from the humans down to the bugs—and the EPA—a colony of prairie dogs had gone ballistic and taken out a family reunion of two-hundred and fifty—and experts from just about every college in the nation worth its accreditation. Hell, even the FAA was being asked to join.

After all the attacks were far enough apart in distance and yet close enough together in time that he had to be traveling by air.

Sam was pretty sure air travel was involved, but not on any jumbo jet or puddle jumper.

And the fact that he could look like _anyone_ only made things more difficult.

He—or she, though the media and officials were fairly certain it was a he based on evidence they wouldn't release (probably didn't have)—_could_ be flying on the planes, but there was no way to know because he could use a different face every time he did it.

Hell, it could be a he or a she or even both depending on the moment. Statistically speaking, the officials were right about the gender at least half the time.

Sam sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his nose again.

They had to stop this demon.

Sam didn't know who this son of a bitch used to be or who he fancied himself now, but people were dying and Sam? He could do something about that if he could find the smoky bastard.

A wave of his hand and some happy thoughts about where demons belonged and this thing would be back screaming in the Choir of the Damned down below.

Of course it would be _easier_ if Ruby wasn't acting like a horny teenager on prom night hoping to lose her virginity to the quarterback right now.

He shoved her off again and stood, pacing.

"Ruby," he said, voice annoyance on the edge of full blown anger, "why don't you see if you can talk to some of your friends or acquaintances or even enemies and try and figure out who this demon is and what his agenda is?"

Ruby crossed her arms over her chest, her own annoyance blossoming.

"I told you, Sam, no one _knows_. And if they do they aren't talking. Demons want this guy dead just as much as you humans do. He's not doing any of us any favors. He's even taken out a few demons in his little sprees, we think. Trust me, if we knew who or where he was, we'd have already taken care of him."

Sam let his head fall back and sighed as he stared at the uneven surface of the ceiling.

"There _has_ to be a pattern. Something that connects the dots, that will tell us where he's going next. Demons used to be people and people, however twisted, use logic. They're never truly random."

He blew out a breath, then sat back down at the computer.

"Sam," Ruby said, voice gentled and back to coaxing. She put her hands on his shoulders and started massaging them, resting her chin on his head. "It'll help you feel better. You know it will. It'll clear your mind and make you feel rested. You won't even have to stop tonight for sleep. You know it will help. And you're going to need the strength when you finally do catch up to this guy. He's not going to be easy to take down. I don't know who he is, but based on what we've seen he's got to be at _least_ an upper level demon. Maybe as strong as Lilith."

Sam sighed and let his head fall forward, eyes squeezing shut.

He didn't want to.

He knew he had to if he wanted to win this fight eventually and take out Lilith, but he _really_ didn't want to right now.

He could feel the darkness growing in him with every surrender.

And he didn't know how much longer he could hold it back from devouring his soul.

But he had to.

Some way, some how, he had to fight the darkness back and keep going.

After all, his brother had died to save him.

Taking on his brother's destiny and saving the world was the least he could do in return.

He swallowed down a rush of bile and lifted his head, squaring his shoulders and his jaw.

"Fine," he said, standing and turning to face her. "Let's get this over with. I have research to do."

She smiled and pushed him back towards the bed, drawing her knife.

"That's my boy." She leaned down and kissed him and he pulled back at first, but, as always, his conscious resistance was overridden by his subconscious desire for more of what only she could give him. She straightened up, releasing him, and drew the knife across her arm, offering it to him.

He bruised her flesh he grabbed her arm so tightly, yanking it to his mouth, all control gone at the scent of her blood.

She stroked his hair as he suckled, petting him like the good dog he was.

"That's my hero."

* * *

Also, my usual beta has viewing issues and so is still trying to catch up with the series. Since she is also an anti-spoiler this means that she hasn't even _looked_ at this. If anyone would like to help me out in this, send me a PM. I'll warn y'all though, I'm very picky about my betas, so there's no guarantee I'll pick anyone. And I will work you to the bone and frustrate you beyond belief more than likely.

Again, I understand if you want to keep your sanity. Heaven knows I would have liked that.


	4. Snips and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails

Everyone give the lovely Phoebe a hand. *claps* She has graciously volunteered to sacrifice her sanity so all of you don't want to gouge your eyes out.

Well, grammatically speaking. You may still want to gouge your eyes out because of this story, but that's for a totally different reason, one I take full blame for. :D

_**WARNING****S:**_

Still got that flashlight, right? Good. You're gonna need it I think.

Remember that puppy that followed Dean out of Hell? She's back. And this time, she's our POV guide.

* * *

He stared at the small quivering mass in front of him, head cocked. She mirrored the pose, wondering what he was waiting for.

It was the only thing left alive within at least fifty miles.

He'd killed everything else—well, she and he had, between them, killed everything else.

She'd killed most of the furry critters. She had a thing about them—didn't quite know what it was, they just bugged the hell out of her—and while he didn't care so much about killing them he wasn't against it either. So he let her play.

He was always doing that, her master. Letting her play and have fun, and sometimes, even if it wasn't exactly what he wanted to do right then, he'd play with her.

She loved him all the more for it.

He played with her a time or two today, grabbing up one of the squeaky little fuckers and tossing it for her to chase and catch and then shake to pieces while it shrieked in terror.

Who knew the little furry things could sound just as scared as humans? Awesome.

The dogs playing with those nasty rubber things? Man, they had no idea what they were _missing!_ Live squeaky toys were _so_ much better.

He'd used birds for target practice today, just, she knew, because it seemed kind of fun at the time. He put up an invisible wall in the sky so they couldn't fly off and then shot them down.

One.

By.

One.

She wished she could help with that, and she _had_ run around for a while and tried to catch them, but there were a _lot_ of birds and so she stopped after a while and just watched him, laughing as he twirled his gun and spun around real fast like he was trying to take them by surprise and, damn, almost _dancing_ while he played.

That made her want to dance too, so she did. She got up and she danced with him, the birds and the blood raining from the sky as they laughed and whooped and barked and howled together.

Of course he'd had the most fun with the humans. He always did.

Probably because when animals get scared, it's a mindless terror. And of course they both loved that—who didn't after all?—but while furry critters can scream, and scream good and loud, that was about it.

That and wiggle like crazy. Which was also fun, but still not near as much fun as the humans are.

Because the humans? They had _words_. Even better, they thought they could _use_ those words to make him stop.

He snorted.

She agreed.

That was all kinds of funny. Her master didn't stop for anyone or anything except himself.

Well, and her, but why the hell would she ask him to stop? That was no fun.

Except he stopped for this one.

This little one was not like the others.

This one had been next and last on his 'to do' list for some reason . . . It was just a young human, though she was bad with numbers and had no idea how young. They were all young to her anyway.

Even her master was barely a pup's age to her, but that was all right because he made her feel like a pup, too.

He'd killed the bitch mama. Hadn't meant to do it so fast, she knew, saw the regret on his face, but it'd just sort of leapt at him, screaming something about a betrayal and how he wasn't going to fucking touch its baby—a point on which they'd have to agree to disagree, she thought with another snort—and it had startled him and he reacted and then it was falling down dead. Dead as a doornail.

Whatever a doornail was, she thought idly, still watching the little one. Didn't sound like something that could die, but apparently it could.

Suddenly he frowned, her master. Her ears cocked, wondering if he'd heard something, but then they went back down when she didn't detect anything. She knew that look, she realized.

He was thinking, remembering probably. She wondered what he was remembering as he stared at the little one.

She thought about it for a half a second, and then tapped into his head. Normally she didn't, his head was his own private den and she didn't want to intrude. She had manners and respected his privacy like he respected hers, but the look on his face now was one she _didn't_ recognize and she'd never done very well with things she didn't know.

He sometimes said curiosity was going to be the death of her, but she just grinned and licked his face. She loved her master so very much and wouldn't change a thing about him, but sometimes he was very silly indeed. But pups will be pups, as her own bitch mama used to say.

She nudged and wriggled her way into the memory and saw it was of the dead bitch mama. Of it and him, naked as sin and doing all sort of things that definitely fit that description. It ran through his head and he let it play for a bit, curious.

She was curious too, mostly because this was a memory of Before.

Before she'd found him. Before, when she was lonely and he was too, because they were apart and neither one of them knew what they were missing.

She always liked learning more about Before, even though most of it made her sad. She didn't always understand what was going on, but it made him sad and that was enough to make her sad.

"Lisa?" He said it aloud, catching her attention. Then he looked right at her. "That name sound familiar to you, girl?"

She looked back at him, tongue hanging out as she basked in the sun, rolling onto her back with her paws in the air.

Nope. Didn't mean a thing to her. But most names didn't.

He smiled at her and she wagged that stubby tail of hers, all wiggles and joy because he was _talking_ to her.

She loved it when he talked to her. Didn't care about what. Just his voice directed to her ears and she got all wiggly and happy like a pup—even more than when he was playing with her.

He snapped his fingers and like a shot she was upright on all fours, wondering what was gonna happen next. She didn't know what was coming, but that snap had her muscles quivering in anticipation, her eyes locked on him, her ears perked up and ready.

"Ben!" he said and then looked at the little one again.

Her ears dropped down and her muscles relaxed when he looked away, and she looked at the little one too.

It started to shake in earnest and, boy, that little thing wasn't gonna need any help from her to shake to pieces.

"You're Ben," her master said and it started making noises, little sniffly ones at first, but then words, some of them broken into bits here and there, tumbling out of his mouth, like the birds from before falling from the sky.

They'd been broken, too.

"P-please," it said. "P-please d-don't hurt m-me. P-please. P-please d-don't hurt m-me." It just kept repeating that over and over.

She yawned. This was boring. Try something else, little one. Shake things up a little why don't you?

He crouched down, so he was right on eye level with it and smiled.

Sometimes the humans would smile back when he looked at them like that because they thought he was going to give in and stop.

She knew better.

That smile was one of her favorites and she got all quivery again when she saw it now.

This little one seemed to know better too.

It didn't smile back.

The tears started falling and it pressed back against the tree it was sitting next to and then a new smell drifted on the breeze and she wrinkled her nose up at it.

Ugh. Gross. She liked lots of the smells that came with her master's work and play, but not this one. It was sharp and bitter and far too strong and she hated it.

Besides, what respectable creature pissed on itself? Now on _other_ creatures, that was a whole 'nother story.

She got up and circled around to her master's other side, right up next to him because she liked it there and the wind wasn't blowing toward her anymore and the smell wasn't so strong.

The little one watched her and she stared right back, curling her lips and enjoying the way his skin went all pasty white at that. Damn she loved her work.

Then her master lifted a hand up and rested it on her head and ruffled her ears and she let him because even better than him talking to her was him _touching_ her.

Oh hellfire and catgut, she _loved_ that_._ Pats and scratchies and belly rubs and ears rufflings and those whole body strokes when he started on her head and went all the way back to her tail . . . She shivered just thinking about it.

Man, she could just lie down and never move again if he never stopped petting her. The moon and the stars and the fucking universe itself could pass away and she wouldn't care as long as he was there with her, touching her and talking to her and looking at her.

Just her and him. That was all that she needed.

She sighed and let her tongue hang out, the very thought of that enough to make her happy.

He smiled and then looked at the little one. "Ben," he said, "This is my girl. She likes to play. Would you like to play with her?"

It looked at her and she thought about growling or something, but her ears were still being rubbed and who the hell cared if the little fucker made more fearful noises right now?

Whatever. She was busy.

Then it looked back at her master and shook its head. "No," it said softly. It swallowed. "No, D- No, s-sir, I don't think I w-would."

Her master made a clicky noise with his tongue and he jerked up his chin. Her ears perked in anticipation of a command, but then dropped back down immediately because he was still rubbing them and, yeah, that was nice.

"Too bad, Ben. I think you two could have had a lot of fun." He gave a lop-sided grin. "Well, I don't know how much fun _you_ would have had, to tell the truth. But she'd have had a _ball_."

He stood and gave her one last pat on the head and she sighed again, but this time it was in regret because he was closing the distance between him and the little one.

Oh well. Maybe when it was dead they could go find somewhere to sit and she could sneak her head under his hand and he'd pet her again.

He always did, when she did that. Gave her this sly little grin and told her she was a sneaky little bitch, but he said it like he loved that about her and then he'd start rubbing her ears or scratching her head and she'd just melt into a pile of fur and bones and lie there until he stopped.

She loved it best when he talked to her then, told her about Before and Someday.

She liked the stories of Someday almost more than the ones of Before, because Someday stories were always happy. Most of the Before stories were just too sad.

He paused halfway there and half turned to look behind himself, and she thought maybe she should do the same, but she was still in her happy place from his ruffling her ears and so she just lay there and watched. He'd tell her if it was important.

Then he turned back and crouched down in front of it, knelt actually, so he was straddling the little one's legs, and put his hands on its shoulders.

It whimpered and closed its eyes and turned its head away, but he just made a soft, shushing noise and slid his hands up to its neck, until he was holding its head, turning it back to face him.

"Ben, open your eyes."

It was soft, easy and slow like nothing in the world was going on that was worth worrying about, but when he spoke like that you listened. Didn't matter who you were, you listened and you obeyed.

The little one was not different this time.

It looked up and met his eyes and then her master smiled.

"Ben, you deserve the very best I can give you."

It swallowed, but didn't say anything, even though it looked like it wanted to.

"Unfortunately, I've spent too long here. I just don't have time to give you my best. I am really sorry about that, Ben."

It started to cry again, big tears rolling down those soft cheeks, chubby with youth, and now it found a voice and spoke.

"Please," it said, so soft it was almost a whisper. "Please don't. Please."

"Shh-shh-shh," he soothed, thumbs rubbing along its cheeks, wiping at the tears. He lifted one hand, letting go for a moment, and brought his thumb up, licking the salt from it.

"Mmm," he hummed softly, eyes drifting shut, then popped his thumb free and sighed. "Life is so not fair sometimes, dude. Never enough time for anything worthwhile," he said, looking at her with those eyes of his. Times like this, they just broke her heart.

And he sounded so sad that she felt her ears droop in sympathy as a whine escaped her throat. It was a hard truth and she hated it, but she couldn't deny it either.

Fucking life. What a bitch it could be.

He looked back down, replacing his hand along its jawline and neck, thumb on the cheek. Bending forward he placed a kiss on the top of its head, soft as a butterfly landing on a flower petal.

"I'm so sorry I can't give you what you deserve," he said and tensed his arms in preparation for the quick jerk that would end it all.

She raised her head and her tongue lolled out of her mouth as she watched.

She was getting kind of hungry. Maybe after this they could find somewhere to eat. Hopefully somewhere with pie.

She loved her some pie.

* * *

Thanks for reading. If you're still out there and not afraid to admit it, be a dish and a doll and click that little review button and let me know, will you?


	5. Four Came Out to Fight That Day

Something had changed.

Sam didn't realize what he was seeing at first and, when he did, he couldn't believe it.

Why the hell should he? It made no fucking sense.

But then that was the answer.

_Because_ it made no fucking sense, it _did_.

Sam closed his eyes. Fuck, this was going to give him a headache, trying to out-think this damn demon.

He inhaled deeply, and then opened his eyes and started reading again.

Another massacre had occurred this past weekend.

This time a camp site in northern Kentucky. Why the hell not?

Like Kentucky was special somehow and should be immune? Nope.

The whole damn country was under siege, the mundane news of politics and Hollywood's latest gossip taking a backseat to the endless chatter of talking heads rehashing the available details relentlessly, despite the FBI's attempts to keep their speculation of connections between the kills under wraps.

But somehow, mass murders springing up all over the country like weeds in the backyard had been hard to contain. Go figure.

Maybe the morons had all assumed it wasn't going to be them since no one had been attacked camping yet. Malls weren't safe—Trenton, New Jersey—neither was washing your car—Prescott, Arizona—and going to a restaurant and just having lunch with family or friends was about the dumbest thing you could do—Insert City or Town Name Here, USFuckingA.

Those places had emptied out and many had closed—either temporarily or permanently—to the sound of a great barn door slamming shut behind the escaped horses.

Which of course meant _camping_ was safe.

No, you dumb fucks. No one and nothing was fucking safe anymore.

Fuck. How much more clearly could it be written than in blood?

The bass-ackward nature of the logic boggled Sam's mind. If you weren't going to find a hole to hide in where no one would ever find you, you might as well try to be _less_ dumb than the rest of the population. It didn't take a hunter to see that, so far, no attack sites had been duplicated.

It was only a matter of time, of course, because eventually no pattern would become a pattern of its own and this thing was too fucking smart to fall into that trap.

Or maybe not.

Because something had changed.

There was a survivor. In protective custody.

Oh, the news wasn't saying that, just in case the psycho came back and fixed his mistake. But it was there if you knew how to read between the lines.

And, you know, hack police reports.

And not only had Sam figured it out, but he had a notion that, located as he was in northern fucking Kentucky of all the places in the world, he might be the closest hunter there was to the latest attack.

That gave him an advantage he'd be a fucking moron to waste.

He stood, snapping the computer shut and sliding it into the bag.

"Ruby!" he snapped.

A soft moan of barely there awareness came from the bed.

"Sam?" she mumbled, lifting her head and blinking those doe eyes at him.

Yeah fucking right. Like he was buying that.

Demons didn't fucking sleep, even ones that had made a blood donation that would make a pro-athlete pass out.

Besides, he had much more important things to do than play her silly little games.

Not that her silly little games were _ever_ really anywhere near the top of the list of important things to do, but he had even less time these days to explain that to her.

He threw her clothes at her and barked, "We're leaving. You have five minutes."

Then he continued packing because he was leaving in five minutes, with or without her. Her choice.

o.o

Ruby woke up real fast at _that_ order in _that_ tone, because she'd tested that boundary before and spent the better part of two days walking across Wyoming trying to hitch a ride because he'd left her pretty little ass behind.

Sometimes, she was riding the Kansas tornado that was Sam Winchester and sometimes . . . Well, sometimes he rode her.

She much preferred the former, but she could deal with—and even sometimes enjoy—the latter.

Right now was a time for dealing, not enjoying, and she crawled out of bed and dressed as fast as her stupid human fingers could manage.

True to his word they were in the car within five minutes, the room scoured of all of his possessions—including her—and he was shifting into gear and backing them the hell up.

He shifted again and the pedal hit the fucking metal with a squeal of rubber burning onto asphalt.

She didn't know where they were going, but she'd be finding out real soon.

o.o

He talked on his phone to Billy or Bubba or whatever the hell that old man's name was and then he stopped half an hour later and told her to top off the tank while he ducked into the men's room.

She wrestled with the pump and the ancient car's obsolete fuel system design and by the time she replaced the pump he was back out, dressed in a suit all spit and polish and shine and sitting in the driver's seat telling her to hurry the hell up.

She rolled her eyes and opened her door, but didn't say anything because she'd pushed _that_ boundary too and found he had no problem leaving her ass at a gas station either. It had taken her near a week to catch up that time.

He'd gotten a bit testy since this new demon came on the scene, she thought with a frown.

She just hoped they'd find it soon and Sam sent its interfering ass back down to the Pit because she had plans for Sam Winchester and they didn't involve him giving the orders.

Not to her anyway.

o.o

Ten minutes down the road—at the posted limit this time because there were an awful lot of cars with light bars mounted on top around here—and they arrived at their destination.

Sam parked the great black beast next to a tiny house in a cookie-cutter suburb which might have been just another cookie on the plate if it hadn't been iced with a thick coating of official vehicles of both the marked and unmarked—yet still fucking obvious—variety, not to mention the crowd of uniforms and nervous people with guns and those little curly earpieces trailing along their necks into their suits.

It was times like these when she learned some things about the girl whose body she was borrowing. A remnant of a thought would pop up in the long-inactive brain, like someone pulling a lamp cord, and fuck, that always surprised her. She never knew when it was going to happen, and she was kind of afraid to find out.

And speaking of cords, if she tugged out one of those Fed's ear cords, would it short the power out and make the poor bastard slump over like a dead robot in the movies? Her meatsuit seemed to think so. Looks like her meatsuit had been an idiot.

Sam leaned over and rooted around in the glove box, then gave her the oh-so-fucking-helpful direction of, "Play along," before getting out of the car and straightening his tie.

Play along with what?

She climbed out as well and he came to her side, took her elbow and murmured, "You're distraught. Try to look like it."

Okay, well, yeah. Might have been nice if that had been mentioned in the 'play along' portion of the explanation.

She turned on the waterworks as easy as turning on a faucet and scrunched her face up and hoped she wasn't expected to say anything because, hey, she had no fucking clue what had her so damn upset.

They passed a bunch of suits who eyed her like she was a cobra—not a recent look, but one she'd enjoyed way back in the day—until Sam said something and flashed a badge and they let her pass.

She wasn't quite paying attention to what Sam had said that would get them to give in so easily because one of the nervous suit robot guys was right there and her damn stolen fingers were itching to tug on that little cord.

Fucking meat-suits. Even when they were empty they were never really empty and it was always the _strangest_ things that were left behind.

Fortunately Sam's grip on her elbow—and, hey, glad she could turn of the pain receptors to that arm, thank you very much—kept her moving through the crowd and up to the front door. Sam said something else to the suits and uniforms there.

This one she wasn't meant to hear because after Sam flashed his badge he leaned forward and whispered something to the suit in charge, whose face went all sympathetic, the gullible idiot, and he nodded and extended an arm to clear a path and shuffle her through, followed by a somberly grateful Sam.

She wondered if she was going to find out what the fuck was going on any time in the next, oh, millennium or so.

And then they entered the house and Sam was herding her through a wake of explanatory whispers and pats on the back by complete strangers and more of those sympathetic looks and even a squeeze on the arm by an over-the-hill woman in a dress that even Paris Hilton couldn't make sexy.

If she were alive she would be worried someone was about to tell her she only had a week to fucking live and, oh, yeah, her puppy got run over by a fucking truck this morning.

But she'd been dead for a few centuries now and her puppy hadn't been killed, he was standing tall at her side, looking official and sincere and saying all the right words to all the right people.

And then, _finally_, everyone got out of the way and they were shown into a room at the back of the house and the door was shut behind them by the floral print woman with a soft, "Take as much time as you need, sweetie."

She managed to stifle the snort.

Sweetie? Yeah. She was a sweetie all right. Like a bag full of rotten lemons.

But she'd obviously played her role and now that Sam had used her like that badge of his to get past the doors between him and his goal she was forgotten.

Oh well. She could stop the waterworks now.

She did and wiped her face and then watched, curious and with nothing else to do, as Sam crossed the room to where a tiny bed was pushed up against the wall.

A blanket was draped over a small form and that was Sam's goal, that little lump there.

Fuck. She hoped he just had to talk to the thing, because she was _not_ going to help babysit some snot-nosed little brat. She'd leave _his_ ass for a change and come back after this whole mess was over with if that was his plan.

He folded up that big body of his into an impossibly tiny crouch and laid one of those big paws on the lump.

It shivered and he spoke quietly.

She inched closer to try and hear.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he murmured. "I'm here to help."

Damn. If she had a heart or a soul she'd probably already be his willing slave with that voice he was using.

The lump wasn't immune either, but then, she had a feeling that there was something else involved there.

"Sam?" the lump said and then the blanket was pulled back and a face was revealed.

Sam froze.

Like someone had hit the cosmic pause button.

Her head tilted and she looked at the kid again, wondering what had happened.

He wasn't the demon they were looking for, so it wasn't that.

He was just a human kid. So what?

And then he sniffled.

And something about that nose twitch, the way his face crinkled up-

Oh.

_Shit._

No way. Not after two years.

No fucking way.

It was the Spawn of Satan himself.

Well, Satan or Dean Fucking Winchester.

Not that ol' Deano knew the kid was his. Even Sam, in one of his sodden, weepy 'I miss my brother' boo hoo confessionals in those first few weeks never once thought Dean was the father. But come _on_, look at him. The eyes, the hair, that mouth . . .

And, honestly, Ruby couldn't blame the bitch for going after Dean. Her own type was usually a little different—not to mention she was _dead_—and Dean'd still gotten her stolen blood pumping a time or two with the smiles those lips were capable of.

Hell, she'd wanted him _dead_, roasting on a spit in Hell—and yet she'd been jealous of the demon who'd been sent to trade for his soul because, dead girl hijacker or not, those lips _were_ made for sinning and she was not the church-going type, you know?

Yeah, that woman had fallen under Dean's spell and she'd fallen hard and she'd gotten her very own little action figure out of the deal. She'd just chickened out when it came to telling the truth—another thing Ruby couldn't blame her for.

And now here they were, in a house crawling with pigs and their suited-up federal cousins, and Sam had come to see _a kid_ but hadn't known it was _this kid_ waiting here to be seen.

Fuck.

She was getting that feeling in her stolen stomach, then one she hated.

It said she was missing a piece of the puzzle—a big fucking piece of the puzzle—and she needed to know what the fuck was on that piece right the fuck now.

That or get the hell out of here and put as much distance as she could between her and this place. Staying here was such a bad idea.

"Sam?" she said, trying not to tap her foot in impatience to be gone. "You got more of a plan than staring at your brother's kid? Because I really think that-"

Boy was that the wrong move.

He turned and rose to his full height in one smooth motion even as his arm was coming up and moving out and a stolen heartbeat later she was slammed up against the wall and her throat felt like it was being crushed despite the seven or so feet between them and she tried to choke out his name but she couldn't quite manage that and a frisson of terror raced up her purloined spine because she had seen that look on Sam's face a hundred times now and it never ended well for the demon.

"What do you know about Ben?" he demanded in that cold as fuck voice.

"Sam, now isn't really the time for talking about how I know your brother's dirty little secret, is it?" She inhaled, intending to get a good deep breath in, in case it was her last one for a while, but his patience didn't extend that far, his grip tightening.

She tried to squeeze out a plea, but his eyes went dark and remote and oh _fuck_ she was going back to the Pit and she was not coming up again any time soon if Sam Winchester had anything to say about it.

"Don't you-" He bit off whatever he was thinking and instead threatened, "You even _think_ about looking at him and-"

And then the kid made a sound, so small it was barely audible, and Sam froze again.

Seriously, who the hell had that fucking remote control and could they maybe _stop with the pause button already?!_

Sam's head turned, though his arm was still stretched out, and he looked at the kid.

Who was looking back with sheer fucking terror on his face, but not at Ruby, whose eyes had gone pitch black as soon as Sam had started putting his best moves on her.

No, his little hazel peepers—also future ladykillers inherited from his bastard father—were locked on Sam like heat-seeking missiles on a fucking nuclear power plant in meltdown.

Sam blinked, once, twice, then lowered his arm, dropping Ruby to the floor to gasp and choke and wheeze through her crushed trachea. Fucking hell, she better not need a new body.

These things weren't easy to find, you know, especially since Sam was so damn picky about them being unoccupied.

Plus, a girl had to have standards and not a lot of comatose people looked all that good by the time the family and friends were ready to pull the plug.

She looked up to see Sam trying to placate the little shin-kicker, his magical voice back and in full force as he reassured the boy that he wasn't going to hurt anyone.

Uh, yeah, that might sell better if you hadn't just pulled a Darth Vader, there, genius.

But the kid stopped trying to pull off his own Jedi trick of phasing through the wall—and how the fuck did she know all this shit about Star Wars?

Oh hell. This body had been a _geek_? Fuck. She was so getting a new one. One that could still breathe and hadn't watched the fucking Sci-Fi channel like she was praying at the altar of Gene Roddenberry and George Lucas.

Whoever the hell those guys were.

She managed to take in enough oxygen to speak, but Sam did so first, turning to nail her with that look of his that could freeze boiling water in the pot.

"Ruby, I swear if you say a single word I will leave you here and tell them that you're the one they're looking for."

She shut her mouth.

Not like she wanted to talk to the kid anyway.

If Dean ever came topside, he'd kill her for that alone without even blinking.

Wouldn't matter who he thought the father was or wasn't either. She'd just cease to exist.

So she leaned against the wall and pulled her knees up a little and rubbed at her throat until she remembered she didn't _have_ to feel pain.

That made it a lot easier to listen to Sam and the kid. Ben. What a dumb fucking name. Ben.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Sam was saying, crouching down again to make himself look less threatening. As if that was possible with hands as big as his.

The kid sniffed.

"Sam?"

"Yeah, Ben?"

"Where's Dean?"

Sam swallowed and then swallowed again.

Was he still fucking choked up about his brother's death? Fuck, Sam, that happened _months_ ago.

Cry a river, build yourself a bridge, and get the fuck over it already.

"Dean's . . . He's gone to . . ."

What? A better place? Man, not even _you_ can sell that pile of horseshit, Sam.

"He's not here, Ben," Sam finally settled on, tears making his eyes all shiny. Fucking Lifetime Channel special going on here. Shit.

The kid exhaled in what sounded a lot like relief.

"Oh. Good," he said.

Sam blinked at that. "What?" he asked.

Hell, even she sat up at that.

"Ben, why-"

The kid looked down at his hands, playing with a hole in the leg of his jeans.

"He killed her, Sam."

"Who? The demon? He killed your-"

But the kid was shaking his head.

"Wasn't- I mean- It looked like- It was-" Now he had to swallow a few times. "It was _him_." The head came up and now both pairs of hazel eyes in the room were swimming in salt water.

Sam swallowed again, Adam's apple bobbing rapidly up and down, but this time it wasn't grief that made it rise and fall like that.

"Who, Ben?" he said, and his voice wasn't so soft now. This was his 'Give me the answer _now_,' voice and it was all edges and hardness and Marine Semper Fi learned from the best, Ol' Johnny himself. Hoo-fucking-rah.

"Who killed your mother?"

There was a crack from outside the room, coming from the front of the house, like a wood panel snapping in half, and Sam's head whipped around as the kid vanished under the covers again with a whimper.

The screams started and Sam stood up, placing himself squarely between the kid and the door, arms out like he was going to fucking wrestle whatever was making those people, those men of the law who faced down the worst society had to offer without blinking, scream like children left to the mercy of a starving, rabid wolf pack.

"Ruby," he said, and she could hear the jangling nerves in his voice, but the solid fucking steel as well and she was real fucking glad right about now that he tolerated her, even if he didn't like her.

"It's him," she said.

She could smell the sulfur stench so strong she almost gagged and she could all but _feel_ the heat of hell growing stronger with every step closer the thing took toward them.

Sam couldn't sense demons, not like she could.

Like called to like and she didn't need caller ID to know who was on the phone right now.

She'd give Sam's left nut for call block or call forwarding though.

Then the screams stopped and the door to the bedroom snapped through the middle and flew toward them all in sharp, decapitating pieces and only Sam's fierce concentration and relentless determination to protect the kid cowering behind him redirected their courses into the walls and floor and ceiling.

Standing in the doorway, grinning like the fucking Joker, was Dean Winchester.

"Oh Luuuucyyyyy," he sing-songed. "I'm hooo-oome!"


	6. Look What Dragged The Cat In

As always, thanks to the fabulous Phoebe for the beta. If there's anything still wrong with it, it's because I can't help tweaking things just a bit when I post. *iz ashamed*

* * *

Sam stared at his brother.

Dean stared right back.

For a very long time that was the extent of the action—or lack thereof—in the room.

And then, Dean relaxed. He smiled.

"Hey, Sam," he said, like he'd just seen him a few hours ago at the library where he'd dropped him off to do research and now they just _happened_ to show up at the same place.

Just a freaky coincidence in two lives lived as one that were full of things both freaky and coincidental.

Except Sam was not able to be so casual.

Because he had _not_ last seen his brother just a few hours ago and Dean had _not_ left him to pursue another avenue of research or shoot some pool or look for a cuddlebuddy for the night.

Dean was _dead_.

Dean was _dead_ and _IN HELL_.

Except he wasn't.

And Sam had the horrible feeling that, while that was very freaky indeed, it wasn't so much coincidental.

So he said the only thing that, really, he could say.

"Dean?"

Dean quirked a half grin and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"Yeah, Sam?"

"What the hell?"

Dean laughed, his head dipping forward in a gesture Sam had seen so many times before that it made his heart give a little fluttery jerk in his chest, somewhat akin to the movement a dying bird makes when pinned by a cat's claws.

And then Sam said the only _other_ thing that, really, he could say.

"Christo."

Dean looked up, the familiar old smile still there, though the pitch black eyes were certainly new.

"Gesundheit."

"Fuck," Sam breathed out.

Dean arched an eyebrow and the look that came over his face was one that made Sam sit up and take notice, because even if this was a frickin' _demon_, years of watching Dean, reading Dean, almost worshiping Dean, told him that he'd just messed up and Dean was about to set him straight.

"Now, Sam. I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't swear in front of my son."

Sam swallowed. Fuck if it did anything, but he didn't know what else to do.

"Apologize to Ben," Dean chastised him and Sam couldn't help the response.

"Sorry, Ben."

There was a sniffle then a barely audible, "It's okay, Sam," squeaked out from under the trembling blanket shielding the boy from his, uh, father.

Dean smiled brightly and his eyes returned to their usual hazel hue.

"See? That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"Dean, what . . ." Sam had no idea what was supposed to come next. Any of a thousand questions could fit there.

Starting with 'What the hell happened to you?' and moving on down to 'What the hell are you doing here?' and maybe ending with, 'What the hell _are_ you?'

Sam had seen just a second ago what the answer to that last one was and, truth be told he knew enough to be able to make a really educated guess as to the answers to the other two, but what he couldn't do was wrap his mind around this whole surreal scenario.

Dean _couldn't_ be a demon because . . .

Because didn't that take thousands of years in Hell? Didn't they have to wear down your humanity until it didn't exist anymore?

Didn't that only happen to _bad_ people who _deserved_ to go to Hell, not people who _sacrificed_ their _soul_ to save their little brother's stupid, worthless life?

No, this had to be a trick of some kind. Sam was . . . hallucinating, or . . . or dreaming . . . or . . . or _something_, dammit.

Dean wasn't—_couldn't_ _be_—a demon because if he was . . . Then Sam would have to stop him.

Not just send him back, because Sam had sent his brother to Hell once before and he'd die before he did it again.

No, Sam would have to _kill_ Dean.

So that he would cease to exist in every sense of the word.

He swallowed again.

He didn't know if he was up to the task. He didn't know if he could commit suicide on top of everything else because he would kill himself if he had to kill his brother. Again.

He'd once made Dean promise to do this to him—_for _him—if it ever became necessary and now that the tables were turned?

Now, Sam understood that look on Dean's face when he'd made that fucking promise.

_Fuck_.

"Sam?" Dean said, and it was gentle and just a little hesitant, and Sam's eyes closed because it meant that for one second, for one precious, fucking second, Sam could pretend that his brother wasn't dead, and hadn't gone to Hell, and wasn't a demon, and that, most importantly, Sam didn't have to find a way to kill him.

"Sammy, look at me."

Sam's eyes flew open and locked on his big brother's.

"I need something from you."

And, oh _fuck_, it sounded just fucking _like him_ and Sam wanted to say, "Anything, Dean. Anything you need. Just tell me and I will find a way to fucking get it for you."

But he couldn't say that because this wasn't Dean.

_Fuck_.

"Dean—" he started, stumbled, tripped over his own tongue, and Dean smiled.

It was that same smile—THAT SAME FUCKING SMILE—that he'd given Sam right before the doors had opened and let the hell hounds in.

The one that said, "It'll be okay, little brother. No matter what happens, it'll be okay."

Last time it had been goodbye and 'I love you' all wrapped up into one final attempt by Dean to protect his little brother from the harsh realities of life.

Sam had no idea what it meant this time and he never wanted to know.

Because this? It wasn't Dean.

And Sam would be _damned_ if he was going to let it wear his brother's fucking face and use his brother's fucking voice and turn that last fucking memory of his brother into something fucking evil.

Sam's features hardened and he lowered his head slightly as his jaw set.

"Go to hell," he said.

"Been there, little brother." A smirk. "For you. Remember?"

"Then die." He stretched out his hand.

* * *

Now, before you all try to lynch me for _another_ cliffie, I have good news. The next chapter is already betaed and so will be up very soon. :D In the meantime, your thoughts on this chapter would be _muchly_ appreciated. :D


	7. But Only One Would Walk Away

Things get a little squicky and gory in this chapter. You may want a bucket to go with your flashlight. *offers buckets*

* * *

Sam didn't close his eyes. He normally did when using his psychic mojo but, well, he knew Dean and even though this wasn't Dean—_it only looked like Dean and talked like Dean and knew all of Dean's moves, but it wasn't Dean—_if you took your eyes off of Dean in a fight for even a fraction of a second it was over and you were going to going home with less blood than you came in with.

Maybe a lot less.

So he left his eyes open and he focused everything he had on the face he knew as well—_better—_than his own and he reached for that power down deep inside him in that pit that just kept growing.

He had been—unconsciously—holding his breath and when Dean's eyes went wide and his mouth opened and that first choking gasp escaped, Dean's hands clutching his chest as if to hold his heart in, Sam exhaled on a gasping grunt, but refused to stop, refused to give quarter for even a moment.

Dean choked again and leaned forward and his eyes, those hazel eyes Sam had last seen glassy and empty in death, bugged out, panic and terror in them now as Dean fell to his knees.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam said, his ability to see Dean temporarily disabled by the tears that welled up. "I'm so sorry."

And then Dean stopped choking.

His mouth closed and his hands lowered and he straightened up and cocked his head like an attentive puppy.

"For what, Sammy?"

Sam blinked. Then he gritted his teeth and reached down, grasping the power and throwing it out like a net over Dean, over the evil that inhabited his body.

Dean just continued to stare at him, head still tilted to the side.

Then he shook his head and got to his feet.

"You're close, Sam, so close. But you don't quite have it," Dean said and he stepped forward and Sam raised the hand higher, as if it simply needed better aim.

Dean stopped, Sam's hand an inch away from his shirt, his own hands up in a position of surrender.

"Can I show you what you're doing wrong?" he asked, sounding just like he had when he'd taught Sam how to shoot a gun or how to throw a knife or even how to pick up a girl in a cheap bar.

A sob escaped Sam's chest as his arm fell down.

He'd failed. He couldn't do it. He was incapable—too fucking _WEAK—_to even take care of his own brother and keep him from becoming what he would never want to be.

Dean took that as acceptance and stepped into Sam's personal bubble, right up next to him, taking his arm with those gentle but callused hands and lifting the limb, resisting when Sam tried to pull free, but without causing him any harm, just keeping a steady grip on Sam's wrist and following his movements.

It was so Dean it broke another sob free of Sam's chest.

"Shh," Dean soothed. "It's okay, Sammy. You can do it, I know you can. You just have to practice and maybe tweak it a little and you'll be toasting demon ass before you know it."

Sam stared down at his brother and got a genuine Dean smile in return.

"Can I show you now?"

Sam just sobbed once more, a pained, "_Dean_," riding the sound out. Dean nodded and looked down at Sam's hand, guiding it so it faced the doorway.

"Now, you want to keep your arm straight, but don't lock the elbow. You'll cut off the blood to your hand and it'll go numb and no one's afraid of a limp wrist," he said, demonstrating by pushing Sam's hand forward until it flopped over.

His head cocked and his eyebrows went up and he said, "Well, okay, that _is_ kind of scary, if you know what I mean, but not really what you're going for, you know?"

He flashed that grin and Sam laughed, a wet, choking sound, pulled out of him as involuntarily as the sobs.

"Okay, so you got the arm up and you flatten the palm, like this, you know? Like you're telling them to stop," Dean said and demonstrated with his own hand, stepping forward with one foot and aggressively thrusting his flattened palm outward.

"Stop, Demon!" he intoned. "Like that, you see? With authority. You gotta have the authority, Sam, or they're just not gonna take you seriously."

"Stop," Sam said, but it was broken and nearly whispered.

"Oh come on, Sammy, you can do better than that! Say it like you mean it! STOP! You know?"

"Dean-" Sam sniffed sharply. "Fuck," he said, grinding the heel of one hand into his eye and stepping back. "Whatever you are."

"Sam, I asked you not to swear in front of my son."

Sam lowered his hand and looked at Dean and had to bite down on a giggle.

"Or what?" he said.

Dean's eyes went flat, his expression hardening.

"Or I'll make you stop," he said.

Sam laughed and, yeah, it wasn't entirely stable, but, man, he was about _this_ close to ending up on the funny farm anyway, so what the hell? Why not go a little crazy?

"Yeah? You and what army?"

Dean grinned, cocky now.

"Don't need an army to kick your ass, Sammy. Never have."

And then he moved his arm up and out toward Sam's chest and Sam barely had time to register the movement before he was flying backward into the closet behind him, crashing _through_ the doors, thank you very much, and landing in a heap among wood splinters and fallen clothes. A rack of ties dropped on his head.

Sam was lying there, coughing his way through getting the wind knocked right the fuck out of him, when he heard Dean's boots on the wooden floor take a step closer.

When nothing happened, when Dean hadn't _said_ anything, Sam looked up and saw Dean had stopped and turned to face Ruby, whose throat was now being crushed for the _second_ time that day by a Winchester son's hand.

She looked rather pissed and Sam couldn't blame her. "Wait. Dean, hold on."

"Oh, hey Ruby. Thought I saw you," Dean said, like he was talking to an old friend. Then he looked at Sam and smiled. "I see you brought your pet bitch with you, Sammy." His grin widened and he laughed. "Guess what? So did I."

And then there was a dog, a huge fucking dog—looked like a Rottweiler, only everything about it was . . . harder. Bigger. More intense. It was _more_ than a Rottweiler. It was _Other_, something that shouldn't be here, and yet it was—standing in front of Dean, snarling up at Ruby. And then Dean _dropped_ Ruby and the dog leapt.

Sam heard screams and growling snarls and he had no idea what was happening because he couldn't see for Dean crouching down in front of him.

His breath came in sharp pants and his eyes were wide and fuck he was going to die here at Dean's hands and he'd failed, he'd failed so completely, in every way possible-

And then Dean was reaching out to him and Sam tried to bring up an arm to block it or grab him or _something_ but he couldn't move. He was pinned down by those damn demon powers and Dean's hand came forward and cupped Sam's cheek like he was a small child.

Sam thought sometimes that, in his brother's eyes, he'd never aged past about six years old.

He would always be fucking Sammy Winchester, a chubby six-year-old and Dean's little brother.

Dean smiled, thumb stroking over Sam's cheek and it took everything Sam had not to lean into the familiar touch.

"Sam, remember that favor I asked you for?"

"Fuck off," he ground out through gritted teeth.

Dean grinned. "Nope. I don't need your help with _that_, little brother. Never had, never will."

Then he became serious again, looking closely into Sam's eyes.

"You're not quite ready to help me out yet. I thought maybe-" He shook his head. "But you will be. Soon. I'll come back then."

He stood and looked down as Sam panted through still clenched teeth and tried to move any muscle in his body besides his lungs and his heart and his lips and tongue. Really, any one would do.

Dean smiled again, the fucker.

"I don't want you to have to worry about Ben, so I'll be taking him with me. You need to focus and Ben will be a distraction. It's okay. I think he and I need to spend some quality time together. You know, get to know each other. Bond and all that crap."

A strangled sound came from the bed covers and Sam's eyes flicked down and then back up.

Okay, so he could control his eye muscles. Not exactly what he had in mind. So he should have been a _little_ more specific.

"Don't you fucking touch him," he snarled. "I swear, you fucking touch him and-"

Dean chuckled. "Sam, he's my son. I have a responsibility. Besides, what are you worried about? I did okay with you, right? He'll be fine. We'll have lots of fun! Isn't that right, Ben?"

Another whimper was the response.

And that's when Sam realized that he could no longer hear Ruby and the dog fighting. He used the little control he had and looked over at—oh fuck.

He swallowed down bile.

Ruby was definitely going to need a new body.

Assuming, you know, she was still around to _use_ a body.

Pretty soon this one was going to be a huge steaming pile of dog doo on someone's carpet or sidewalk.

The dog lifted a bloody snout and looked at Sam as if it could hear his thoughts.

Small intestines hung from its mouth like limp sausage casings until it lifted its head in a quick movement and slurped them down like the T-rex eating the damn goat in _Jurassic Park_. It was appalling and grotesque and pukeworthily disgusting, but he just couldn't take his eyes off it.

And just like the dinosaurs, this creature looked at Sam with intelligence shining in its eyes.

"Did I introduce you two yet?" Dean asked, waggling a finger back and forth. "No? Sammy, meet my best girl, Sniffles. Sniffles, this is my little brother Sammy I was telling you about."

The dog cocked her head and looked at Sam more closely, then glanced up at Dean.

"Yeah," Dean said, as though the damn thing had asked a question out loud. "But not yet. Soon though. Very soon."

Sammy swallowed again, then said, "Sniffles? What kind of a name is Sniffles for a . . . a _hellhound_?"

Dean laughed and the dog . . . looked embarrassed?

What.

The.

Fuck?

"You know, I've asked her the same damn thing, but she won't tell me?" Dean said, still grinning like a fool. "Won't let me see that memory either. Keeps it all locked up in her head. She'll show me one day," he said confidently, looking at the dog—at _Sniffles_—with affection and nodding. "When she's ready."

She kept her nose down but looked up and met Dean's eyes. She nodded once, then looked back down, licking her chops and nuzzling the remains of Ruby's old body.

She gave one of Ruby's exposed ribs a final lick, the red gore covering it disappearing under her agile tongue, leaving only stark white behind, then bent down and grabbed hold of the right leg. Stepping on the hip girdle with a front paw she gave a tug, worrying and shaking her prize until it popped free of the joint and ripped free of the torso.

She gave a few more tugs until the skin and cloth had all broken free, then straightened, the leg still locked firmly in her jaws. One for the road, apparently.

Sam had to swallow a few more times, in rapid succession, to keep from puking all over himself.

Dean was at the bed, murmuring gently, but it was doing nothing to slow or lessen the shaking of the blankets concealing Ben.

"No!" Sam said. "Stop! Please, Dean, don't-" His voice cracked. "Don't do this," he breathed out. "_Please_."

Dean glanced up, but just ran a gentle hand over the lump.

It fell immediately still and Sam's heart dropped out of his chest.

What the fuck?

Oh fuck.

Ohfuckohfuckohfuckoh_fuck_!

Had he just killed him? Had Dean just killed Ben and Sam had done nothing but lie here and try not to puke over a demon's long dead meat-suit being ripped apart?

Dean slipped his arms under the lump and scooped it up until Ben was cradled against his chest, still wrapped up in the blanket. Dean shifted his load until the boy's head was resting in the crook of his neck, his supportive hands holding onto Ben at shoulder and hip, Dean's arms wrapped under Ben's back and knees.

Sam had been held by Dean like that many times, mostly before he had his growth spurt and outgrew his big brother.

And now Dean held his son that way. But Ben was limp and unmoving . . .

Sam exhaled.

Ben's chest was rising and falling.

Not dead then, just unconscious.

Thank fuck.

Dean was humming softly and slowly swaying back and forth a bit as he looked down at Ben, and Sam's throat clogged up at the sight before him.

Dean would have been a great dad—_had been_ a great dad.

He looked up and smiled at Sam.

"Now, remember, Sammy. You study hard and you learn what you need to and when you're ready, I'll come back and you can help me with that favor. All right?"

"De-"

"Shh," Dean said softly as he crouched down by Sam's legs in the doorway of the closet. "Sleep now, Sam. I can see you haven't been sleeping well lately. Just rest now. I'll see you later."

Sam's eyelids grew heavy and he fought to keep them up, but he just _couldn't_ and the last thing he saw before the darkness swallowed him whole was Dean's smiling face.

* * *

Gonna be out of town this weekend. Will try to post again tomorrow before I leave and then write some more while gone so there will be something soon after I get back! :D

Review plz&thx.


	8. Chess Pieces Sliding Across the Board

GAH. SORRY. Had a couple of family things that I had to do. Thankfully that's over with now. :D

* * *

He left through the front door, but had to pause just outside.

Of course he'd seen her when he came in, but he'd been sort of busy. Now he had time to stop and appreciate the view.

And what a view it was.

"Oh, Baby," he said. "I've missed you."

He couldn't leave her with Sam, he just couldn't. He put the sleeping boy on his shoulder and ducked back in the house. Sam looked kind of peaceful there in the closet and snored quietly as Dean frisked him down for the car keys.

He opened the shotgun door, laying Ben on the seat before tucking a blanket around him. He smoothed a hand over Ben's hair, then straightened and shut the door.

He looked down to see Sniffles holding onto her leg-snack, her stubby tail wagging furiously, and sighed. "You're lucky I love you. I don't even let Sam eat in the car most of the time. Come on. Let's see if there's a tarp we can lay down."

He led the way to the trunk and popped it open. It was cleaner and he rolled his eyes at that, but everything important he remembered was still there, including the big old marine-issue tarp that was older than even him. Possibly older than the car itself.

It had been patched several times over the years, but it still did the job and he would keep it as long as that was true.

He ducked in and got the thing spread out over the backseat, making sure that it properly draped over the back and filled the footwells so it would catch any drips or leaks or splatters. That leg looked pretty juicy.

Maybe they'd stop for burgers on the way out of town. He was getting kinda hungry, he thought, patting his stomach.

"Okay," he said pulling back and then extending an arm. "Get in there, girl."

Sniffles eagerly jumped up, careful of her weight and mindful she didn't move the tarp too much, then sprawled out over the seat, setting the leg down so she could pant and smile at her master. She gave a single deep, "Woof!" and he grinned back at her.

"Sure thing, sweetheart."

Then the door was shut and he circled round and slipped behind the wheel and just closed his eyes and sighed as his hands wrapped around the familiar creaking leather before him.

"Damn," he whispered. "This feels good. It feels _right_."

Only thing that would make it better was if Ben was awake in the back with Sniffles, laughing and petting her, and Sam sitting in the seat next to him, making that bitchface of his as he traced their route out on a map.

Then he turned the car on and the radio started.

Something whiny and emo and oh-so-_Sam_ leaked out of the speakers and his lip curled. From the backseat Sniffles offered a mournful howl of mockery in accompaniment and complaint all in one.

"I agree completely," he said and jerked the little cord that connected the freaking iPod to his baby's sound system. "Fuck, Sam, grow a pair already, would you?" He rolled down his window and almost tossed the little player out on its shiny metallic ass, but stopped and looked at it.

With a shrug he tossed it on the floor under Ben. It wasn't the iPod's fault its owner had shitty taste in music. He'd switch that emo shit out for some good ol' classic rock and when Sam came back maybe he'd have better taste in music.

And if not, he would just beat good taste into Ginormo. Hadn't worked before, but he knew a few more tricks now.

The box of tapes was, fortunately for Sam and the rest of human race, still tucked under the front seat. He rifled through it until he found the tape he wanted and popped it into the deck with a grin.

AC/DC blasting _Back in Black_ out of the speakers, his girl in the back chewing on that bitch demon's leg, and his son curled up asleep next to him.

For now, life was pretty damn good, he thought, tugging Ben closer until his head was resting on his thigh. He ran his fingers through Ben's hair and the kid shivered, but he didn't pull away. Good enough for now.

With a rumbling roar the classic beauty pulled away from the curb, answering the call of the open road.

o.o

Sam came awake to the sound of approaching sirens.

His first thought, under a furrowed brow, was, _Sirens?_

And then adrenaline was flushed into his system and his next few thoughts in rapid succession were, _They found us! Shit! DEAN!_

And then he jerked forward and opened his eyes and found things to be much worse than he'd anticipated.

Because he wasn't sleeping in an old motel, his brother in the next crappy bed, the feds about to bust down their door for crimes Dean—mostly—didn't commit.

He was stuffed in a closet at an awkward angle and there was a bloody corpse and an empty bed in front of him—and, he had a feeling a lot more of the former spread throughout the rest of the house—and not only was Ben gone, but Sam was the only survivor left behind and he wasn't really supposed to be here anyway.

Oh, and his brother had returned from Hell as the worst demonic plague since the days of, you know, those guys who built the pyramids.

Dean really was kind of an overachiever when he put his mind to something.

Imagine what he could have done for electrical engineering if he'd gone to college instead of making EMF meters out of old busted Walkmans.

The sirens were getting closer and louder and that was bad for reasons beyond the way it was making his head spike and throb with pain like he had a porcupine in his skull throwing a temper tantrum instead of a brain.

He grabbed the door jamb of the closet and pulled himself up and to his somewhat cooperative feet, then staggered forward, almost slipped in some kind of unspeakable gore, and narrowly missed a faceplant into Ruby's former lower GI tract.

He coughed once, trying desperately to keep from adding to the loveliness by puking on the corpse, and used a nearby wall to assist in his standing up efforts.

Once there he had to blink a bit until the colors returned to his vision and then he headed for the window.

No way he was getting out the front door. A nosy neighbor would be the least of worries. Although it occurred to him, he might be the only living thing for several blocks. He couldn't be the only surviving cop wading through a sea of dead police to inconspicuously climb into his totally nondescript car. And he couldn't pop out to the Impala and change either so he was stuck in the monkey suit until he could break into the impound lot and steal her back.

Hopefully they'd forgo looking in the trunk or trying to get into his laptop, just tow the unknown car from the crime scene, but really he couldn't do a damn thing about that at the moment so he just crossed the back lawn quickly and vaulted over the wooden fence, grateful that it was both tall and faced on an ally, so he didn't end up in another backyard, but landed on pavement with another high wooden fence on the other side.

The bad news was that there had been guards out here too and Sam had landed ankle deep in what was left of one of them. He made a face and scraped his shoes against the grass hoping the blood on his cuffs wasn't _too_ obvious.

Then he was off down the alley and turning onto the street at the end, walking along like it was a perfectly normal thing for a man in a suit to take a late morning stroll through a suburban neighborhood in which he didn't reside.

Fortunately—and yet unfortunately—there were much more interesting things for the local homemakers association to be gossiping about right now. He went pretty much unnoticed all the way to the bus stop where he caught the 809 westbound and headed for the city and greater anonymity.

He took his seat and blew out a breath.

It was going to be a long fucking day.

o.o

Dean drove for a while, finally pulling into a diner on the edge of the city, one of those truck stop extensions full of grease and salt and anonymity. He'd have to be more careful now, since Sam would be on his tail and where the FBI and the local 5-0 didn't have a chance in hell of tracking him, Sam would be after him before too long.

Sam'd have to find a new car first, but Dean was confident that wouldn't slow his brother down all that much.

He'd released Ben from the enforced sleep, but didn't wake him, content to let him sleep or wake as he would. He'd stayed down which made Dean frown. Kid must be exhausted.

He left Ben in the car, gently easing his head down to the seat from the pillow he'd made of Dean's leg and cracked a window just a fraction before he went in to the diner. Normally Dean took Sniffles in with him, but someone needed to watch Ben and she was still working on that leg of hers.

"I'll be back," he assured her and then left, locking the door and closing it gently enough to not wake Ben.

The diner was crowded, lunchtime rush well under way, so Dean took a seat at the counter. He flirted with the waitress, smiling as he imagined how her pretty green eyes would look filled with terror, her mouth stretched wide in a scream as he flayed the skin from her bones—maybe after he'd made her eyes glow with lust and stretched that mouth with sighs and moans of pleasure first—but he had to get going and couldn't do much more right now than imagine and make her blush for all the wrong reasons.

He waited for his order, slowly spinning the stool to observe the diner's other patrons, wondering which among them would be screamers, which would be beggars, and which would just cry and pray to a God who never seemed to listen.

And then he heard a gasp from the waitress and he turned back to see there was a television up above the counter on the far end that she—along with most everyone else in the place—was now watching. Whatever program had been playing was replaced by the breaking news report of Dean's latest handiwork.

His lips curled up on the side and he chuckled softly.

"Fuck me," the guy next to him said. "That crazy psycho's near here? Fuck."

Dean focused on the man, his eyes squinting in humor as he surveyed the poor bastard who didn't realize he was sitting right next to the 'crazy psycho'. Not that he was offended. He was down right amused, matter of fact.

"That's some crazy shit, isn't it?" he said in agreement, smiling, sipping on the coffee he'd ordered while waiting.

The guy turned. He wore a generously stuffed flannel shirt over a greyish-white wife-beater and well-worn jeans over biker boots—all of which could stand to see a laundry cycle or twelve—marking him as a likely operator of one of the big rigs sitting outside. A belt buckle the size of a hubcap at his waist marked him as a Texas fan, if not a native, both by its size and the fact that it had a big star on it with the words 'Everything's Bigger In Texas'.

Now that, right there, that was amusing, Dean decided. He'd have to pick one of those up next time he was in the Lonestar State. Ben would like it. Maybe they'd head there next.

"Don't know what's wrong with people today. Fucking crazy bastards running around killing everything they can get their hands on. I hope they catch that son of a bitch and put him down like the rabid dog he is."

"Amen to that," Dean said and lifted his mug in a toast and then took another drink, hiding his ironic smile.

Yeah, right. Like some dumb Fibbies were gonna catch his ass. He snorted. In their fucking wildest dreams.

He finished his drink and accepted the bag the shell-shocked waitress brought to him, thanking her politely after she stuttered out a, "Have a nice day."

Damn he wished he could stay. He could only _imagine_ how awesome it would be to make her beg and scream for more of his touch, then tell her who he was and what he'd done, and hear her beg and scream for mercy, watching those green eyes change from passion and lust to disbelief and horror. They would just _shine_.

Maybe they could stay _one_ more night. Sam wouldn't expect him to stop so soon, right?

He stepped up to the car, fingers flipping the keys around to separate the right one, before looking up at Sniffles' ass instead of his empty seat or Ben's head.

The hell?

He leaned to the side so he could see in the windshield and realized what had happened.

Ben must have woken up finally and tried to make a run for it.

Sniffles, loyal girl that she was, had crawled over the seat and was now standing over Ben, keeping him from running off.

Dean shook his head in amusement, then straightened and opened the door.

Sniffles glanced over her shoulder, teeth bared, but dropped the act when she saw it was him. Her tail started wagging and her tongue lolled out, thick gobs of drool landing on Ben's face and making him scrunch it up in disgust and try to move out of the drop zone.

Dean ran his fingers along Sniffles' flank in a quick scratch, then patted her with a, "Go on. Get in the back now. I got this."

She nimbly stepped back over to lie down with the remains of her leg and set to work on it again. Most of the meat was gone, the bones themselves licked almost clean, but there was marrow yet to be dug out.

Ben didn't look much calmer for her retreat as he pushed back and scrunched himself up against the passenger side door, pulling his legs in close as Dean slid in.

He set the bag down between them and waved a hand.

"Got some lunch. You hungry?"

Ben's eyes flicked to the back where Sniffles was noisily gnawing on the ball joint of Ruby's hip, trying to get a little shred of meat out, then shook his head, arms tightly clasped around his knees.

Dean shrugged. "Okay. If that changes, feel free to dig in." He reached in and snagged a few fries, before pulling back out onto the main drag.

His priority now was finding a place for the night. Safety wasn't really a concern—Sniffles wouldn't let anyone get near the boy now except for Dean—but he didn't want the kid staying in a pit. And with a task to do, he wouldn't have to worry about her sneaking out and stirring up trouble.

They could keep each other company until dawn while Dean was busy with his waitress. And that trucker from the counter. He hadn't liked that guy very much and he didn't think he'd blown up a big rig yet.

o.o

Turns out, when you're 6'4", wearing a suit, and have reasonably good looks it's really _hard_ to blend in no matter where you go.

So Sam used one of the cards he had in his wallet and bought something a little more casual, a little more comfortable, and hopefully a lot less flashing neon sign, and stuffed the suit in a backpack he also purchased.

He tossed the shoes in a dumpster. Even with his attempts to clean them immediately, and then more thoroughly later on, they smelled . . . unpleasant.

But maybe that was why he'd been drawing attention, because now that he was in brand new sneakers, jeans, a t-shirt and button down plaid over the top of that, he wasn't garnering quite the same reaction.

With relief he ducked into the library and headed for the computers.

He'd really like to have _his_ computer, but it was, at best, still in the Impala in an impound lot and, at worst, being pored over by any of the FBI's best and brightest who were still breathing.

He'd have to make do for now with this old, but not ancient, PC trying to load his requested web pages.

Unfortunately, the latest attack was still too fresh. There wasn't anything except news coverage, rehashing all the things he already knew. He kept checking just in case, having no other leads to look up right now and trying really hard to not think about the implications of Dean being the demon he had been chasing.

o.o

Dean checked into a suitably clean but run of the mill motel close enough to the diner to make it convenient for him, but far enough away that any noises or explosions or collateral damage wouldn't bother his boy. He was the only guest for the night so far and, after a moment's thought, he decided he'd like it to stay that way.

He got his things into the room while Sniffles watched Ben, then returned to the car, opening the passenger side door so suddenly, he had to catch Ben when he tumbled out.

It only took a single blink upward at the face hovering over him, the same one connected to the hands under his back, and then he was fighting.

Dean had to give him credit. He was a little wildcat.

But Dean had wrestled a much bigger Sam to the ground and so subduing Ben wasn't at all difficult. A hand over his mouth smothered the screams for help and a second around his knees secured the legs. Ben's fists beat at any part of Dean he could reach, but still being in the single digits age-wise meant there wasn't a lot of power behind the punches. And his left arm was pinned between his body and Dean's, limiting the number of weapons he could bring to bear.

He did get one good shot on Dean's nose that left the man blinking, but Dean just laughed as he carried Ben to the door and inside, Sniffles on his heels.

"Hell yeah," he praised, looking down at the furious and terrified eyes swimming behind tears. "One day you are going to have one _helluva_ right hook on you. But, then, you are a Winchester."

He kicked the door shut behind Sniffles, then set Ben down on the farther bed, keeping his hand over Ben's mouth and grabbing both of his wrists with the other to keep from being pummeled again as he leaned over the boy.

"I need to go take care of something. You stay here with Sniffles and eat your dinner and I'll be back in a little while, all right?"

Ben blinked, but didn't otherwise respond.

Dean nodded and let go, straightening up.

Ben immediately scrambled back to the wall, hunkering down like in the car, knees pulled up to his chest and arms holding them there. His eyes remained locked on Dean.

Who went down on one knee and patted Sniffles' on the head.

"You watch Ben for me while I go take care of the manager, all right?"

Sniffles whined, obviously upset at being left out of the fun, but Dean just smiled and ruffled her ears and the whine turned into a throaty sort of growl, her eyes going out of focus just a bit, mouth dropping open to pant.

"I'll bring you back a treat," he promised, then stood. "If you need anything, Ben, you just let Sniffles know and she'll pass it on to me, all right?"

Ben's eyes flicked to Sniffles' then back to Dean's.

He didn't say anything and Dean shrugged into his jacket and picked up a small bag of tools that he'd need.

"I'll be back," he said, just like Arnold Schwarzenegger in Terminator, then couldn't help laughing at his own joke. He was a lot scarier than a robotic killing machine. He was a lot scarier than almost anything.

o.o

Sam stayed until just before closing, and made sure to walk out at the same time as some other patrons. He didn't need anyone actually looking at him and maybe remembering his face. He decided to get something to eat before he went to find the impound lot and tried to liberate his brother's car.

One heart-attack-in-a-sack later and Sam was crouched outside the fence of the impound lot, waiting for the security camera to swivel over to the other side of the lot.

It whirred its way around and he scaled the fence in a quick jump-_pull_-flip-drop maneuver that he'd done a thousand times before, panting lightly as he ducked into the shadows of a white panel van that had been rusting in place for some time now on rotting tires. Case must be real cold on this one.

He moved as soon as he could, ducking and weaving around the vehicles awaiting unspecified fates, his movements timed carefully around the cameras watching over the yard, but within an hour he'd covered the whole thing and hadn't seen tire nor bumper of the Impala.

He leaned back against a late-model pickup that wouldn't survive long enough to see better decades, and tried to think. If it wasn't here . . . Sam paused when a thought hit him. He felt kind of stupid for not considering it earlier. What if _Dean_ took the Impala? He had to have seen it sitting out in front of the house.

And while Sam wanted to believe that there was enough of his brother left inside to remember how much he loved that old car, because it would mean there might be something worth saving, he _didn't_ want that remnant of Dean there. Because there _was_ no saving Dean—he knew there wasn't—and even a sliver of hope made killing him an even more impossible task.

If it wasn't with the demon version of his brother, though, maybe the FBI had taken it to their lot? Where would the nearest one of those be located? Was it in a crime lab somewhere, already being picked apart and covered in fingerprint dust and Luminol?

Dean was going to kill him if that was the case.

Or, more likely, Dean was going to kill someone else—like the entire FBI—since apparently big brother had a favor to ask him.

None of which was really relevant at the moment, because he couldn't keep crouching here in the lot next to a decomposing truck until he solved his internal conflict over his duty to his brother and the world.

He looked up and got the count on the camera, then moved when the coast was clear.

The same jump-_pull_-flip-drop maneuver got him out and he walked away to find a cheap motel where he could seek unconsciousness for a few hours and regroup in the morning.

o.o

He thoroughly enjoyed dealing with the manager—and the relief who walked into the back room and found a surprise waiting.

Neither one had lasted very long, but they were nice warm-ups for what he had planned later and they passed the time.

He'd flipped on the 'no' for the vacancy sign before he began so now all he had to do was lock the office up as he headed out. Not like anyone was going to make a big stink with the cops when they found the office closed, but he didn't want anyone accidentally walking into the back room.

And if anyone did show up and make a big deal, Sniffles would hear and be able to deal with them.

He went back to the room to clean up, lingering in the shower and taking his time preparing for his evening.

Ben was awake, but only barely so, his slitted eyes either locked on Sniffles as she chewed on the 'treat' Dean had brought back for her, or following Dean around the room.

He hadn't eaten, but Dean knew from experience with Sam at that age that hunger strike tactics would only last so long. He'd eat when he got hungry enough. Trying to force it in the meantime would only be more trouble than it was worth.

"I'll be back by dawn," Dean said as he pulled on his jacket, patted his pocket for his keys, then left with a, "Night."

o.o

Sam found a cheap motel, checked in under the fake name du jour, and, after stripping down to his boxers, collapsed on the bed with little ceremony. He had nothing to unpack and while he felt like showering, he didn't actually have anything cleaner to change into.

He'd have to fix that in the morning before he went back to the library.

For now he was more than ready to call it a day and with a sigh sank into the pillow and forced his brain to turn off for a few hours.

o.o

He arrived just as she got off work. He could see her slipping her coat on and saying her goodbyes. She got in her car, but when she turned the key, he made sure nothing happened.

She started to back toward the diner when he first approached, but he smiled in just the right way, quirking his mouth into a lopsided grin and raising his eyebrows just like he used to when he helped someone. He knew it was working when she took a tentative step toward him, and when he offered his assistance with the car, he could see her tense muscles relax just a hair.

Some pointless tinkering, a few attempts to start, some small talk and chit chat to help her relax more, even talking about the news from today and just how very awful that was, all accompanied by his most blinding smile, and bit by bit he charmed her until she was smiling herself, and starting to touch her hair and throat, and he knew he was home when she start to unconsciously lean into him, bumping his hip as he leaned under the hood, and brushing his arm accidentally as he opened the door to the Impala for her to get in.

He'd cleaned up from Sniffles' snack earlier and the car smelled like air deodorizer and cleaners and they talked about his baby and how he took excellent care of the old girl all the way to her place.

She thanked him and then, shyly, invited him in and he politely accepted and followed her up the walk to her little brick house.

He shut the door behind himself as she shed her shoes and plunked her keys in the dish by the door and told him to make himself at home.

"Well, darling," he told her, taking her hand and tugging her back against him for a kiss, her arms still trapped in her coat. "If you insist."

* * *

Review, plz&thx!


	9. Catch Me If You Can

Sorry for the long delay! Betaed as always by the ever fantastic Phoebe. If there are still parts that suck it's because I don't have sense enough to listen to her good advice.

* * *

He was right.

The "More, please, FUCK! YES!_ MORE!"_ litany that dripped from those pretty lips was fantastic. But the, "NO! PLEASE, FUCK! STOP!_ PLEASE!"_ was better.

And he'd gotten laid and had a chance to practice his new trade.

Damn, it was good to be him.

The rush he felt while making his way down her front walk, knowing what he'd done . . . well it was almost enough for him to consider sparing the life of the trucker. Almost.

It would be _much_ more satisfying to go through with his plans though.

Some people lit a cigarette after sex. He lit up a tractor-trailer. Just proved the old adage true: Size _does_ matter.

He made sure the driver had the front seat for the show, then nearly laughed himself silly when he took a peek in the back as he was spreading gasoline. It was full of cigarettes.

Fucking _perfect_.

He watched the driver burn from a safe enough distance that any arson investigators wouldn't take note of him, staying until the fire trucks blocked his view, then headed back to the motel.

Ben was still awake, looking miserable and, at the same time, even more terrified than before. Probably because Sniffles had stretched out across his bed—and pinned his feet underneath her.

She had this thing about feet. She liked sleeping on them, sitting on them, licking them . . . Dean didn't know if it was a normal dog thing, or if she just had a foot fetish, but it was harmless, so he'd never stopped her.

Though you'd think she was eating Ben's feet the way he was staring at her.

Dean frowned. He'd better not find out that Sniffles had scared Ben.

He liked seeing pain and agony and fear, but not on his son. Ben shouldn't be afraid of anything.

_Anything_ should be afraid of Ben.

Or at least his father.

"She's not gonna hurt you," Dean said as he took off his jacket and tossed it over a chair, before stepping out of his jeans and leaving them, with his over shirt, in a pile on the floor. He sat on his bed. "Ben."

The red-rimmed hazel flicked up to him.

He waved a hand to indicate Sniffles. "She's not gonna hurt you," he repeated. He smiled slightly. "In fact, this means she likes you."

Ben's eyes dropped to the big canine body—bigger than him actually—and then came back up to look at Dean, but he said nothing. He didn't seem very reassured.

Dean looked to the table and saw the bag of food was still untouched, then looked back.

"Cold fries are nasty, huh? You want me to go get something else?"

Ben shook his head.

They stared at each other for a few more minutes, then Dean moved to the other bed, laying one hand on Ben's knee.

Ben flinched and looked away, but not before a big fat tear escaped his eye and rolled down his cheek.

"Hey now, what's this?" Dean said, putting a hand on Ben's cheek and turning his head back to face him. He bent forward and brushed a kiss against Ben's head—or tried to, anyway.

Ben finally moved, reaching up and shoving at Dean, kicking his feet to free them so he could back away. He wasn't paying attention though and probably would have backed right off the bed if Dean hadn't grabbed his arm to stop him.

He finally spoke. "No! Let me go! Don't touch me, you bastard!"

"Ben! _Ben!"_ Dean said, then yanked, pulling Ben toward him until he could trap the writhing, kicking body in his arms.

Sniffles had woken up at being kicked in the side, but just watched sleepily as Dean wrestled Ben under control.

"First of all, watch your language. Second, I'm not going to hurt you," Dean said, both of them panting, though Ben's breathing was the verge of hyperventilation.

"You said— You said— You hurt— I saw—" He was babbling, unable to actually _vocalize_ what he'd witnessed. "And— and—"

"Shhh," Dean said, rocking a little bit back and forth. "I know what I said, but then I thought about it. And a man's life's work doesn't mean much if he doesn't pass his legacy on. Everything I do will be forgotten unless there's someone to keep it going after I'm gone." He snorted. "Well, you know, _if_ I'm ever gone. Anywho, you're my son and it's my responsibility to teach you about _life_. And there's no better way to teach that than to watch as it fades out of a person's eyes, to really get a _feel_ for how far you can push before that happens."

Ben stiffened in Dean's arms, then went limp. When he spoke the tears were thick in his voice. "I don't wanna— I can't— I just wanna go _home._" The sobs came faster and faster, all of Ben's nine-year-old defiance and composure gone in the light of this new revelation about his future.

"You _are_ home, Ben. You're with me and I'm _family. We're_ a 's all home really is."

"No!" Ben wailed. "I want to go back to my house with my _mom!_"

Dean huffed a snort. "Yeah, well, uh, not exactly possible, dude."

Ben was past the point of paying attention though. He continued to sob and cry and wail about how he wanted his mom and to be at home. He wiggled and bucked, trying to get free, but Dean just held on until it became obvious it was pointless and the physical fight stopped.

Dean might have gotten angry at Ben if he didn't remember how many times Sam pulled a tantrum like this because he was hungry and over tired. As it was, he sighed, remembering his little brother, and just held on. He shoved at Sniffles' hip with one hand. "Move," he ordered and she stood and stretched, then shifted down to the foot of the bed, tail wagging, tongue lolling.

Dean stretched out on the bed, still holding onto Ben, but this time got them under the covers. As soon as he was settled, Sniffles lowered herself to cover his feet and went back to sleep with an exhale of breath.

Dean turned off the light between the beds then wrapped his arm back around Ben, cuddling the weeping child to his chest and knowing that the kid would cry himself out and fall asleep soon enough.

He'd let this go on for tonight. Tomorrow, though, he and Ben were going to have a little talk about how things had changed and what was acceptable behavior for a Winchester.

Until then, he was gonna get some sleep.

o.o

Sam woke to sunlight streaming in his face and the smell of coffee in his nose.

He inhaled deeply, savoring the oh so _fabulous_ scent, then opened his eyes.

If Ruby was making coffee that meant she was going to ask for someth—

Sam blinked.

There was someone sitting at the table, sipping coffee and tapping at his computer, but it wasn't Ruby.

It was Dean.

Sam blinked again, then sat up slowly, wiping at his face as he tried to figure out if this was a dream. He discreetly pinched his earlobe as he scratched at his head.

It hurt, but then, Sam remembered that getting his ass kicked by that kid with the dream root had hurt too. Myth: busted.

Dean glanced up from whatever he was doing on the computer and smiled. "Morning, sunshine. I was wondering if you were gonna sleep all day."

He stood and came over, a cup of coffee in his hand that he offered to Sam.

Sam looked at it in a way he imagined most people would look at a live grenade and shook his head.

"Dude, you gonna take it or what? I don't drink half-caf vanilla lattes."

Sam's eyes did a few jumps between Dean's face and the cup, then he accepted it and sipped. He couldn't help the groan that slipped out before he gulped down more of the hot drink.

Ruby never got his favorite when she was trying to kiss his ass. She came close, but she always managed to forget something. And really, after a couple of months, how hard could it be to remember? Scheming demon whore.

Dean grinned and sat on the other bed.

Sam swung his legs over the side of his bed and stared at his brother, all the while feeling like he was in a Salvador Dali painting. There were no melting watches, but the surreality of this whole moment was no less prevalent.

Unless he'd dreamed the whole damn thing? It did feel sort of the same way he'd felt after waking up on that last Wednesday in Broward County.

Man, if this was another of the Trickster's games he was seriously going to find a way to kill that thing once and for all, demi-god or not.

And then there was the flush of a toilet in the bathroom and the door opened a moment later. An exhausted and pathetic looking Ben shuffled out.

"Ben?" Sam said. He didn't appear to have any new physical injuries, but something had obviously happened since the last time Sam saw him. He was too complacent and, well, more resigned than accepting of his new situation as he ignored Sam.

Sam wondered if it was grief for his mother and his loss of normalcy, or if Dean had done something to him to make him like this.

His eyes flicked back to his big brother and Dean shrugged.

"We had a talk this morning about what it means to be a Winchester," he explained, reading Sam's mind.

"A talk?" Sam said darkly. The old Dean would never have use physical force or threats to gain cooperation from a child, but then, this wasn't the old Dean was it?

"Yeah," Dean said easily. "A talk." His eyebrows lifted. "You know, college boy, with words and shit?"

Ben didn't even look at the two men as he continued his journey to the table where Sam saw that a half-eaten meal McDonald's breakfast was laid out. He just took his seat and mechanically finished his breakfast.

Sam was alerted to the other presence in the room when Sniffles sat up and panted, giving Ben her best puppy dog eyes and eying his hash browns.

"Sniffles," Dean said in warning. "You already ate yours, you pig. Leave Ben alone."

She looked over her shoulder at Dean, guilt all over her face, then laid back down next to the table.

Sam looked back to Dean who grinned and sipped his coffee.

"So," he said, "I was gonna just leave your ass, but then I realized I had all your crap." He shrugged. "Wouldn't exactly be fair of me to rob you blind, now would it?" He jerked a thumb at where Sam's clothing duffel, the weapons' duffel, and a few other things that Dean would never have claimed lay in a pile near the door of Sam's room.

"You are gonna have to get a new car. I appreciate you watching out for her, but I need my baby back. Hell just doesn't have great cars. 'Sides, now you can get one of those hybrid thingies you always said are good for the fucking environment." His grin was crooked.

Sam couldn't help cocking his head and smirking bitterly. "I thought we weren't supposed to swear in front of Ben," he pointed out. It was a struggle with the way Dean was acting so very . . . _Dean_, but he was trying to remember that this wasn't his brother. He couldn't forget that.

Dean actually looked chagrined briefly. "Oops. Sorry, Ben."

While Sam wondered about that and how it didn't exactly fit with Dean's new personality, Dean drained his coffee, tipping his head back, Adam's apple bobbing, and Sam was distracted suddenly by the thought that his brother's neck was exposed to him right now.

And he had Dean's favorite hunting knife—now blessed and cursed, and all the other things you had to do to a knife to make it lethal to demons—under his pillow, three inches away from his hand.

One swipe for the demon in his brother's body and a second for the hell hound, and he and Ben could get out of here.

The kid was going to need therapy until he was a senior citizen, but Sam felt more than enough guilt for his part in all this—for Dean's going to Hell, for not figuring out sooner what was going on, for letting Dean take Ben even if only for a night—and he'd happily pay for it. Especially if it meant they got out of here alive and Dean was stopped.

It could all be over right now.

His hand inched under the pillow until it was wrapped around the hilt, then it froze.

Not from indecision or fear.

If the gleam in Dean's eye as he tipped his head forward was any indication, he was fully aware of Sam's intentions and had taken measures to prevent them from coming to fruition using those new abilities he'd gained in Hell. Dammit.

Sam really needed to wrap his head around the fact that Dean had changed—in ways that weren't obvious by looking at him. If he didn't, he had no chance in hell of every stopping him.

Dean crumpled his coffee cup, but instead of throwing it in the trash, he held it in his hand and watched as it burst into flame.

The fire seemed to almost mesmerize his brother, convincing Sam he might have a chance. It would have to be a stab to the heart, but it would still kill just as well if he could only . . .

_Dammit_.

He even tried to use his mojo, but whether it just wasn't working, or Dean was blocking him, or he actually needed his hand up, nothing happened.

By the time the cup was ash that Dean poured onto the carpet, wiping the residue on the bed cover, Sam had accomplished nothing but perhaps a light coating of sweat.

Dean's eyes met his again. "You ready to go?"

Sam's head tilted in confusion. Surely Dean didn't think it was going to be this easy.

He realized Dean wasn't talking to him when Ben stood and crumpled the papers from his food around the remains of his breakfast, then stuffed them in the bag.

"Yes, sir," the boy said quietly. Sniffles arched her back into her rising and then gave a good thorough extension of each of her limbs. She panted at Dean as if to say she, too, was ready.

"Okay then." Dean stood and headed for the door. Sam discovered too late that when his brother moved out of physical reach his movements were no longer restricted.

He stood as well, wishing he had something to say, but unable to think of what would even apply here.

Pleading? Threats? Bargaining?

Hell, he'd recite a Shakespearean sonnet if he thought it would do any good. But he was pretty sure that Dean was past the point where words would help.

Way past it.

Dean was opening the door and about to walk out and Sam couldn't do a damn thing to stop him.

Then Dean stopped and half turned back.

"Hey, Sam? You remember when we were kids? We'd play hide and seek in the junkyard at . . . Uhhh . . ." He snapped his fingers rapidly. "What's his name's place. Wears trucker hats."

"Bobby?" Sam said.

"Yeah! Bobby! Dude, I should pay him a visit now that I'm back." He lost focus for a second and Sam felt his heart rate pick up. He needed to warn Bobby about Dean.

Dean refocused. "Anyway, remember that?"

Sam swallowed, the grin on Dean's face not at all reassuring. "Yeah," he said slowly.

Dean's grin widened and turned a shade predatory—not an altogether unfamiliar look on his face, but not one that was usually leveled at _Sam._ Mostly it was reserved for the fugly they were about to kill or the woman Dean was about to pick up.

"Tag. You're it."

Dean's hand flicked and Sam flew back to his the far wall. The air in his lungs rushed out as he was hit, hissing as he slid down the wall. He sat down hard on the floor with a grunt, blinking dazedly at the comforter about a foot from his face. He was bent in half in the narrow gap between the bed and the wall and just had time to look up and see Dean shut the door.

He struggled to his feet and raced over, but by the time he yanked it open, the roar of the Impala was already fading away as the car disappeared down the street. Ben's face was briefly visible in the rear window, but then Sniffles licked his cheek and he ducked back and down, out of sight.

Sam watched them go, then turned and reentered the hotel room, dropping to sit on the bed, then putting his head in his hands.

He'd vowed to himself that _he_ would be the one to take care of Dean since it was his fault that all this had happened anyway, but if his track record in dealing with his demonic brother so far was any indication, the world was fucked.

He picked his phone up off the charger. Hit speed dial 2. Ring. Waited as patiently as he could. Ring. Chewed his lip. Ring. Finally.

"_Sam? What's up, kid?"_

* * *

Review, plz&thx. I can't guarantee when a new update will come exactly, but I can tell you that knowing how many people are reading and want this will guilt me into getting more written and posted. :D


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